


This Mortal Part of Mine

by Sineala



Series: This Mortal Part of Mine [1]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Avengers Vol. 1 (1963), Cabins, Cap_Ironman Reverse Bang Challenge 2017, Community: cap_ironman, Drama, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consentacles, Happy Ending, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape Recovery, Shame, Telepathy, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 14:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 60,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11150529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: Steve hasn't seen Tony since he carried him, blackout drunk, out of the flames of a Bowery flophouse several months ago, and he honestly never expected to see Tony alive again. On his road trip across America, Steve puts out a call for the nearest Avenger -- and he's very surprised when Tony turns up in a brand-new Iron Man suit, ready for action. But their relationship, strained and tense, is about to get even worse. Their foe turns out to be a monster from another dimension, who hurts them in ways they could never have imagined, and the bond between them might not be strong enough to weather the aftermath.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixmetaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor/gifts).
  * Inspired by [RBB Art - Sticky Situations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11150571) by [phoenixmetaphor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixmetaphor/pseuds/phoenixmetaphor). 



> This is my entry in the 2017 Cap-IM Reverse Bang, inspired by phoenixmetaphor's amazing [art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11150571). Check out those tentacles! Thank you for drawing so many wonderful pieces and for encouraging me to keep on writing and being so kind about the draft of this story! It has been a pleasure to work with you once again!
> 
> Thanks so much to Robin_tCJ and Kalashia for beta! 
> 
> I would apologize to [Robert Herrick](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/50721) for the title, but he did it first, so I'm not that sorry. Literature! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I don't even know, man.
> 
> This story takes place in the early spring of 1986, just after the death of Obadiah Stane at the end of Iron Man's second drinking arc in Iron Man #200 (so this is approximately Iron Man #202). Over in the Cap comics (#319 or so), Steve and Bernie Rosenthal have just broken up, and Steve's got a hotline, a van, and a roadtrip across the country. My interpretation of the Marvel telescoping timeline for the purposes of the story is that Steve has been in the future for about three years and has known who Iron Man is for under a year. For much of said year, the second drinking arc has been happening; I am setting the snowstorm in IM #182 in December 1985. 
> 
> CONTENT ADVISORY: Please be advised that there is tentacle monster non-con (including non-con drugging by the tentacle monster to make the victim happier -- which, y'know, cool motive, still non-con) and a whole lot of tentacular dream sequences (consensual within the dream, although upsetting to the dreamer in retrospect) and tentacle-related fantasizing. The Steve/Tony is consensual. This is basically h/c tentacle rape recovery.
> 
> (Please note that most of the art is EXTREMELY NSFW. There are SFW thumbnails linking to the full pieces, but most of the full art is very, very NSFW. It's tentacle porn.)
> 
> Still with me? Read on!

The portal was in the middle of the field. It was only mid-March, so all the fields—corn or soy, Steve couldn't tell which they would be—were fallow, displaying the occasional snowdrift and thin iced-over puddle. It was a couple hundred feet from the road—itself a dirt road, pitted and worn, with only a few tire tracks ground into the ice—and was exactly where the coordinates had said it would be. The farm was huge, and Steve supposed that not a lot of people came this way at this time of year. That probably made it the perfect location.

Even through the van's tinted windows, Steve could see that the edges of the portal crackled, an ominous blackened purple against the cloudy afternoon sky. The portal itself was perpendicular to the ground, and through it Steve could see another place entirely. There weren't more fields on the other side. There was a cabin. It looked like somewhere in the mountains, to judge by the trees around it.

The portal winked shut, collapsing into a point of light and then disappearing, like a television turned off.

Steve glanced at the dashboard clock. Three p.m. exactly. The report had gotten that right.

The anonymous tip was a day old. When Steve had hit Cincinnati, he'd stopped to get a square meal, to shower and shave, and to drop the newest comic book pages in the mail for his editor in New York. He'd just gotten back from the post office when the computer system in the dash had lit up, Ram bringing him the latest news from his citizens' hotline.

There was a town an hour or so away, Ram had said. A man was reporting a mysterious portal, appearing and disappearing on a local farm for the past two days—but only from dawn to dark, every hour for five minutes at a time, like clockwork. A magical version of Old Faithful. Whoever had called it in had done so from a payphone in Columbus; there was no tracking that down. But the details had been right, because here Steve was, and here was the portal.

Steve glanced at the computer system and thought about backup.

For all his talk about freedom, about needing to get out and see the country, he wasn't ever truly alone. A call to New York would summon a Quinjet in an instant, courtesy of Jan; he wasn't even going to have to miss the Saturday team meetings.

If it had been just a villain, just an ordinary supervillain, Steve would have had no qualms about facing the challenge head-on. Fighting whoever needed to be fought. But this was magic. This was a portal to God-knew-where. It would be better to have someone at his side. This was above his pay grade. And besides, he had a team. He had the Avengers. This was what they were here for.

But there was no sense summoning an Avenger right here. Whoever had made the portal—because obviously someone had—could be watching him right now. No, the best course of action would be to go away, get backup, formulate a plan, and come back.

Steve turned the engine on again, reversed, and then drove back the way he'd come for a good fifteen minutes, stopping when he'd gotten to the closest main road. There. That was probably safe. He grabbed the keyboard out of the center console and typed awkwardly, one-handed. He watched as his own query appeared on the screen, green on black:

_CAPTAIN AMERICA: Backup needed. Non-priority but urgent. Full team not required. Closest city is 39_ _° 20' 11" N, 82° 59' 2" W._

There. Whoever was on comms duty at the mansion would see that, and he'd have to wait a few minutes for them to acknowledge, for Jan to find him a Quinjet—

Another line appeared on the screen.

_IRON MAN: Acknowledged. Responding. Five minutes out. Light me a beacon, Cap._

With fingers that were suddenly shaking, Steve flipped the switch that would broadcast a homing signal on the Avengers' frequencies. His heart skipped a beat, and he took a slow, even breath, trying to bring himself under control.

It wasn't Tony. It wasn't. It couldn't be, not anymore. He knew this. His brain knew it, but his heart obviously didn't. In these past three years of living in the future, he'd known from day one that Iron Man was his friend. Iron Man was his teammate. Iron Man was safety and home and everything good... and other feelings he hadn't quite let himself entertain. And then, not that long ago, he'd learned that Iron Man was Tony Stark. Two of his best friends were the same man. He knew now what it was like to see Iron Man smile at him, the way he'd always dreamed of. It hadn't helped those hopeless feelings any, but he'd had Bernie then and Tony'd had Jan and then Indries, so what did it matter? Nothing was ever going to happen. It still wasn't.

And then— and then—

Jim Rhodes was Iron Man now. He'd been Iron Man for a good four months or so, wearing the armor because Tony hadn't, because Tony couldn't anymore, because Tony had lost himself in a bottle. 

Steve shut his eyes and swallowed hard. 

He hadn't talked to Tony since the middle of his bender. He'd— God, he'd just left him. He'd saved Tony's life and he'd left him. Tony had run away. And that was the last time Steve had seen him. He'd heard enough—from Jim, actually—to know that Tony had turned a corner a few months ago, sometime in the middle of December. Whatever had happened—Jim had been evasive about the details—Tony was newly committed to sobriety. He was going to AA, Jim had said. He was healing.

Last week, Steve had caught a glimpse of a newspaper headline. Something about the death of Obadiah Stane. He hadn't bought the paper, or read the article, but surely that meant that Tony was going to get his company back. Surely that meant that Tony was going to be all right. He didn't need Steve's help, which was good, because it was obvious that Steve wasn't going to be able to do anything to make him better. He already knew he'd made him worse.

He didn't know if Tony even remembered what Steve had said to him. Maybe he'd been too drunk.

Maybe someday Steve could figure out what in the world he could say to Tony ever again.

But it didn't matter now. Jim was Iron Man, and when Jim got here he could tell him why he was even here in southeast Ohio, because the last Steve had heard, he'd been on the West Coast team with Clint and Bobbi and the rest. And maybe, after they figured out what was going on with this mysterious portal, Jim could tell him how Tony was doing.

Steve sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and got out of the van to wait, so Jim could see him. He leaned against the side of the van—it was red, now—and let the chill of the metal seep into his back as his breath fogged out in front of him in the cold. It wasn't an especially warm day.

And then, above him in the skies, he saw it, heading toward him. A familiar flash of red and—

—red and _silver_?

That wasn't Iron Man, was it? The armor Jim wore these days had once been Tony's armor, red and gold. Steve would have known it anywhere. But Jim was just the pilot, a very good pilot but still just the pilot; Tony was the one who did all the engineering. Steve had assumed Tony wasn't in any shape to build anything, but he must have been, because that sure as heck wasn't the old armor. Had he made Jim new armor? He must have. This had to be Iron Man. Steve was expecting Iron Man, and no one else could fly quite like that.

In fact, the figure in the sky flew the way he remembered Tony flying, with a breakneck speed and an easy confidence Jim hadn't quite mastered the last time Steve had seen him.

Now he was just seeing things, Steve told himself. It was clearly Jim, it had to be Jim, and Jim would explain everything when he landed.

As the figure drew closer and closer, it became obvious that it was Iron Man, albeit in a sleek and modern armor. The arms, legs, and faceplate were silver rather than gold, and the armor was larger than usual, but built up in such a way to make it taper elegantly around the wearer's body, from wide shoulders down to a narrow waist. The helmet looked larger too, almost hooded. The shoulders were built-out, giving the entire armor an inverted triangular shape that matched the triangular unibeam housing in Iron Man's chest. The entire effect was... surprisingly deadly, but gorgeous too. It had to be Tony's design. 

When Iron Man was about twenty-five feet up, the bright glow of the boot jets dimmed and then cut entirely, and then he dropped the last fifteen feet with one leg drawn up, balancing gracefully with his arms outstretched, floating down with the power of his palm repulsors alone. He landed as lightly and easily as if he'd just been taking a step forward. It was a nice move. Elegant. Beautiful, even. It had been one of Tony's moves, once. Steve guessed Jim had been practicing.

Iron Man walked toward him. 

Steve finally got a good look at him and promptly forgot how to breathe.

The eyes behind the mask were blue.

 _Tony_.

Oh, God. It was Tony after all.

What in God's name was he supposed to say to him?

 _He's an Avenger_ , Steve told himself, firmly. _He's your teammate. You say what you need to say. Do your goddamn job, Rogers. Be professional._

He breathed deeply, in and out and in again.

Tony tilted his head to the side, an achingly familiar gesture of confusion, as huge as all his motions were in the armor, and he started to reach out a hand. "Cap?" he asked, and it was Tony's voice, Tony's voice the way it had always sounded with all the filtering on. "Is everything okay? Did something happen to you? Is that why you needed help?"

Sheesh. Tony probably thought some villain had hurt him somehow, and that was why he was so strange, when instead it was Steve's own thoughts that plagued him.

"I'm all right," he managed to say, his voice scraping his throat. "Just surprised. You... weren't the Iron Man I was expecting."

The eyes behind the mask blinked, and Steve found, to his shame, that he was out of practice at reading Tony's reactions, in the armor. It might have been understanding. It might not have been. "You didn't read the papers?" he asked. "The team didn't fill you in? I'd thought it would at least have been in the papers. About a week ago."

Oh. That headline. The death of Obadiah Stane. It wouldn't have named Tony, of course, because the public didn't know his secret identity, but it would probably have said Iron Man, if Steve had bothered to read the article. "Did Stane— did you—" The words caught in Steve's throat.

"I didn't kill Stane, if that's what you're asking." The filtered voice was sharp and somehow faraway. "I finally suited up again because he'd kidnapped a few of my friends. Stane killed himself." Tony paused. The armor speakers fuzzed in a sigh. "So it's been... quite a week. If you were wondering."

What was Steve supposed to say? _I missed you_? Could he say that? Did he have the right to?

Steve cleared his throat. "It's good to see you again." He hoped that wasn't daring too much.

Tony's armored face was unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on Steve. "Likewise." And then he glanced around. "So. Where's the fire, Cap?"

Oh. Right. The actual mission. Steve gestured at the van. "It's not as urgent as all that, but come on in. I'll show you what I've got. You can get out of the cold, anyway."

He walked around and climbed back in as Tony opened the passenger-side door; the van rocked with the weight of the armor as he sat. When Steve flipped the homing beacon off he looked up to see Tony watching him.

Tony nodded at the computer system in the center console; the armor glinted as he moved. "Pretty sure that's not a factory option on a Chevy."

"The Avengers special?" Steve shook his head and tried not to smile. He'd forgotten that Tony made him smile. But he knew he didn't deserve Tony's friendship, not after what he'd done to him. "Not exactly. It's got a few Wakandan aftermarket upgrades."

"Yeah," Tony agreed. "It looked like T'Challa's people. Nice."

Before he was quite aware of making the offer, Steve realized he had tapped at his own throat, where the armor catch used to be on Tony's helmets. "The window glass is tinted," he offered, "if you wanted some fresh air—"

Tony's stare was once again unreadable, and he was certain for a good few seconds that Tony was going to say no, but then Tony reached up to his chin. There was a metallic click, and then he was lifting the helmet away.

It had only been maybe six or seven months since Steve had learned Tony was Iron Man. Watching him unmask felt—still—like being privy to an amazing secret. Which Steve was, he supposed. He'd wondered since he'd first met Iron Man, idle daydreams and fantasies, about who was under the mask, and it had been the best possible answer. 

Steve felt his heart beat faster, as the helmet came off and Tony was revealed before him.

Tony was a little thinner now than he should have been, his cheekbones too prominent, the hollows around his eyes too deep, his skin paler than usual. But he was neatly groomed, his mustache trimmed, his hair styled into a long and fashionable cut. And his eyes were bright again, that familiar dark blue, clear and alert, sparkling and warm. Steve hadn't even dared to hope to see that look in his eyes again. Tony wasn't at a hundred percent; that much was obvious. But he was on the way up, and that was plain to see as well. And he was—he was still so goddamn handsome, that was what he was.

The last time Steve had seen Tony's face, he'd been passed out, dead drunk in Steve's arms as Steve carried him from a Bowery flophouse, out of the flames. He hadn't shaved in days, and he'd been shaking, sweating, sick, sallow, the life ebbing out of him. The only thing left in Tony had been a ravening thirst for liquor, a craving eating him up from the inside, and Tony had been giving in, not fighting, letting it take him—

He'd thought he was never going to see Tony alive again.

Steve's own father had crawled into the bottle and never come back out, after all. He knew what it looked like, and it had terrified him, because Tony had looked exactly like that.

"Do I look okay?" Tony asked, his voice shaded with more than a little tension, thick with awkwardness, and Steve realized he was staring.

"Yeah," Steve said, quickly, too quickly. "You look good. Uh. Fine. I mean, you look fine."

Tony's gaze darted around, and Steve wondered for one terrified instant if Tony had somehow divined everything he was thinking, but then he settled back into his seat and lifted the empty helmet between his hands, holding it out to Steve as if the thing itself were a question. "You like the new armor? It was going to be a present for Rhodey, but I ended up needing it a little more. It's the Model 8. The Silver Centurion. Fresh out of the West Coast Avengers compound. Brand new. Well, new as of last week."

Steve cleared his throat. "Sure. It's great."

"That's why I'm here, by the way," Tony said. "Well, not _here_ -here, I'm here because you called, but I was running distance flight tests and I didn't, um. I didn't want to go back to New York." The break in the sentence was excruciatingly audible. Steve knew exactly why.

For God's sake, Tony probably hadn't wanted to run into _him_.

"It's very nice armor," Steve said again, a desperate attempt to fill the gulf between them, the gulf that had never been there before.

"Thanks," Tony said, and then he was glancing wildly around again; his gaze lit upon Steve's portfolio cases, resting against the side of Steve's seat, which were probably the nearest safe objects. "So I'm certain I know what's in one of those," Tony added, "but I'm honestly curious about the other, because last I checked, you only had the one shield."

Tony raised his eyebrows, inquisitively, and the corners of his mouth curved upward in the smallest of smiles—a real smile, inviting Steve to smile back, and God, Steve had never thought he would see that.

"Two shields," Steve said, deadpan, and oh, the things he wanted to do to make Tony smile again—

 _Stop it_ , he told himself. It wasn't happening.

"No, it's actual art." Steve relented and admitted the truth, after enjoying Tony's answering smile for longer than he really should have let himself. "But you're not going to believe this."

"Oh?"

"You," Steve said, savoring the pause, "are looking at the newest artist for Marvel Comics' _Captain America_."

Tony's gauntleted hands went to his mouth. "Holy shit," he said, and his delighted, joyful laughter echoed throughout the van. "You're kidding me. What am I saying? You're not kidding me. You're never kidding me. Oh my God. Really?"

"Cross my heart," Steve said.

Tony was almost doubled over now, laughing, tears in his eyes, and when he raised his head he was staring at Steve, amazed and wondering, like he hadn't even known he could still laugh like that. Steve wondered how long it had been since Tony had laughed.

"Can I see?" Tony breathed, and Steve supposed he should have expected that; Tony had always liked his art. "I mean, how urgent is the timetable here?"

"Don't worry," Steve assured him. "We've got about half an hour before all the excitement starts."

He passed Tony the case, and Tony opened it and held the pages inside almost reverently, cradling them in his bulky gauntlets. Even though most of the pages couldn't have looked that great—all but the top one was nothing more than layouts—Tony stared at them, awed, like Steve was one of the Old Masters. It was... well, it was flattering. Heady, even. It always had been, the way Tony appreciated pretty much everything he could do, whether it was drawing or taking down evildoers.

"These are lovely," Tony said, shutting the case and putting it down. And then he finally seemed to take stock of where he was sitting, of the rest of the van, of the narrow bed in the back next to Steve's bike. It was clear to any observer that this was where Steve was staying. "So you're a long way from home too, huh? What's with the road trip, Cap?"

"Oh, you know," Steve said, and he was sure Tony could see right through the casual air he was affecting. "I didn't want to just move back into the mansion, and I had that back pay from the Army, and I set up that citizens' hotline, and I thought it would be easier to help people if I could drive out to see them. And I'd get a chance to really see the country along the way, see it the way everyone else sees it."

It was the same thing he'd told Sam, more or less, but somehow it felt more hollow when he said it to Tony.

Tony squinted. "Move back into the mansion? I thought you were living in Brooklyn Heights. With Bernie."

Two weeks. It had only been two weeks, and the regret stung, crawling under his skin, leaving him raw and aching. They'd been so good. He'd thought, once, that she was the one, for sure. They'd been engaged.

He remembered every word of the letter Bernie had left him; it was the curse of an eidetic memory. _I hope when I graduate, we still feel the same for each other. There are no guarantees in life, though. Good luck on your mission._

He'd known, even before the letter, that it wasn't going to work out between them, but knowing it intellectually was different than seeing it, final and irrefutable, in black and white. He'd been holding her back. He'd come on too strong. He couldn't ask her to give up everything for him. She didn't owe it to him to do what he wanted, to stay and run a damn hotline, to be no more than a superhero's girlfriend, a superhero's wife. She had ambitions. She had a career ahead of her. He wasn't going to stand in her way. 

Maybe a normal life wasn't for him. Maybe he didn't get to be happy.

He glanced back at the rest of the van, at the bed that only fit one person, and he felt very, very alone.

"She moved to Wisconsin," Steve rasped. "Law school. When she's done, maybe, we'll see—" The words caught, and his eyes were suddenly too hot. "But I know it's over."

Tony's gaze softened, and he leaned over and rested a gauntleted hand on Steve's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, quietly.

There was sorrow and understanding in Tony's eyes—God knew Tony had been dumped too many times to count, not that Steve understood why. _If I had you_ , he thought, _I'd never let go_.

He wanted to laugh, because his fantasies had so often come close to this. He was single. Tony was single; at least, Jim hadn't mentioned anyone since Indries, and given what Indries had done to Tony, he would have said if Tony were on the market. And they weren't usually both single, not at the same time. And so many times, Steve had thought _what if_ and Steve had thought _he's taken_ and Steve had thought _we can't_. And now they really, really couldn't. Sure, they were both single, but Tony's last girlfriend had left him and sent him falling off the wagon, down into an alcoholic spiral, a tailspin that had nearly cost Tony his life.

He loved Tony. He couldn't do that to Tony. He couldn't chance being the cause of that, not ever.

And besides, it had only been two weeks for him. He owed anyone the courtesy of not being a rebound, and Tony more than anyone else. Steve was— Steve was... okay, he was kind of a mess. And Tony was—

He didn't know what Tony was.

He wanted Tony to be all right. He wanted Tony to be happy. Tony was better off without him.

Hell, Tony was probably straight.

Tony squeezed his shoulder, a pressure Steve could feel even through the mail of his uniform shirt. Tony was touching him. He hadn't seen Tony in months. He hadn't _touched_ Tony in months.

"If you need anything," Tony began, and he left the offer, as always, open-ended. His voice was soft. Steve wondered what he'd sound like if he knew what Steve actually wanted.

Steve nodded. "I'll be fine." His voice was still tight.

Tony dropped his hand. For a few seconds, the only sound was their breathing.

"So," Tony said. "What brings us here to, uh, Deadman Crossing?"

Was _that_ what this area was actually called? That wasn't a good sign.

"Take a look for yourself."

With an awkward, two-fingered computer command, Steve brought up the mission logs, so far consisting of the hotline transcript, and he watched as Tony turned the screen toward himself and read through everything Steve knew. Tony's eyebrows rose higher and higher.

"A portal every hour on the hour, huh?"

"Yep." Steve leaned back and stared out the window at the empty road and deserted fields. "I got here, saw one open and close, and thought some backup might be nice."

Tony's mouth quirked. "So when you asked yourself _which of my friends really loves magic_ , the answer you came up with was me?"

Steve snorted. Now that Tony had said it, of course, he was remembering exactly how much Tony hated magic. "In my defense, I wasn't actually expecting you to be the one showing up." He wondered if that sounded like he didn't want Tony here.

"Eh," Tony said. "That's reasonable." 

He was still smiling. The jibe about magic had been a joke after all. At least Steve hadn't offended him.

And Tony had said _friend_. Not just _teammate_. Not just _fellow Avenger_. Maybe they were still friends. So what if they'd been... avoiding each other? Things had been rough, sure, but they could put it all behind them. They could go on. They could team up and run a mission, the way they used to. Everything was going to be fine.

A mud-brown sedan with Kentucky plates zoomed down the road, then paused ahead of them. As Steve watched, it turned... down the very road Steve had just come from.

Tony's eyes slid over to meet Steve's. "Were you expecting that?"

Steve shook his head. He had his hand on the keys in the ignition. "No, and that's the road the portal is on, so I think we'd better follow them and see—"

Tony caught his wrist before the engine so much as turned over. "In this thing? They saw us. They turned past us. They'll know it's us. Don't you want to take the bike? I can fly."

"I want to see what we're dealing with before we give ourselves away as superheroes."

Pursing his lips, Tony sat back. "All right, Cap. It's your show." He settled his helmet over his head once more; it locked into place.

Steve told himself that he didn't miss the sight of Tony's face.

"Besides," Steve added, "they won't know it's us."

He hit one of the other buttons on the dashboard, and through the windshield he could see the hood of the van—and all the rest of it—begin to change color, the red becoming blue.

Tony whistled, a noise that sounded very strange with the suit filters on. "Nice."

Steve smiled, and then he backed the van up and turned down the road, after the other car. It was probably going to be nothing, but there was no harm in checking it out.

* * *

This was the slowest car chase Steve had ever participated in.

Sure, with his serum-enhanced vision, he could keep the other car in sight for much longer than anyone else possibly could, but it was a frustrating process of pausing and pulling over as soon as he could just barely see it, so he didn't advance too far, so he didn't get to the point where the other driver would be able to see him coming.

"Sorry," Steve said, as they sat on the side of the road for the third time.

The armor's huge shoulders shifted as Tony shrugged. "Nothing to be sorry for. This is actually kind of relaxing. I like it."

After the fourth time Steve stopped, the brown sedan had pulled to a halt almost exactly where Steve had parked, before, when he'd seen the portal. Whoever they were, they were waiting for the portal.

Steve glanced at the clock. Three minutes.

The driver's-side door opened. The person who got out was wearing a long, shapeless dark robe, with the hood pulled up over their head. Steve couldn't make out anything else about them, not even their gender, but if he had been asked to describe someone who was about to participate in some kind of unsavory magical practice, they would have been an excellent candidate.

"Okay," Tony said, uneasily, and Steve supposed there was some kind of distance-vision equipment in the suit, because it all should have been a blur even at Tony's 20/20. "That's definitely not ominous at all."

The robed figure was standing on the other side of their car, facing the field where the portal was due to appear, not looking in Steve's direction.

Without taking his eyes off the figure ahead of them, Steve unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed the other portfolio case, and took out his shield. The weight of it in his hands was reassuring. Red, white and blue gleamed at him out of the corner of his eye.

He didn't move. He didn't have to. He just breathed, slowly, evenly, and he could feel everything into him settle into that cool, calm place, centered and ready. The world was too real and not real enough; the world was only tactics, angles and impacts and cover, line of sight to the target. It was the way he always felt before battle, with his team around him.

"How do you want to play this?" Tony's level question was so quiet, as if the faraway figure could have overheard. "Do you want us to take them down now?"

Steve shook his head. "Wait for it. I want to see what they're going to do."

"Oh, I already know what they're going to do," Tony murmured, and that was when the portal opened up again.

It was exactly as Steve had seen it before: there was a line in the air, black-purple, crackling with energy, opening wider and wider, as if an unseen hand were tearing a hole in the sky. It grew taller and wider still, until it was about the size of a doorway. From this angle and distance Steve couldn't make out what was on the other side, but it had to be the cabin from before.

The hooded figure didn't look back. The figure simply stepped forward and through the doorway.

The portal was still open.

Before he was even conscious of moving, or of wanting to move, Steve was out of the van, running down the muddy, icy road.

"Hang on," Tony said, from behind him. "I'm faster."

And then Tony caught him up in his arms and he was flying, they were flying over the road, through the field, barreling towards the portal, and the only thing Steve could think was _God, I've missed this_.

Tony set him down just in front of the portal, where it was plain to see that the view was the same one Steve had seen before: the cabin. It was small, log-sided. Pine trees rose up on either side of it, and there was more snow on the ground there than there was here. And there were even more portals visible through the portal. Steve counted five of them, appearing and then winking out, disgorging more dark-robed figures, who promptly headed forward to the tiny cabin.

Tony's repulsors gleamed bright, charging up, and he took a step toward the portal.

"Wait," Steve said, and Tony turned around. "Can you even tell where that is?"

"The magical interference is playing havoc with my sensors," Tony said, shaking his head. "But I can tell you that it's not putting out enough energy to be either interdimensional or interplanetary."

Steve hadn't even considered that. "So wherever this is, this is Earth. Our Earth."

Tony nodded. "And if it's Earth, we can take these guys down and get home. If worst comes to worst and you're hurt, I can fly us out." His head lifted, and Steve was sure he was smiling behind the mask. "Besides, you weren't honestly going to stay on this side, were you?"

"You've got a point." Steve grinned and lifted his shield. "Come on, Avenger. Time to save the world."

"It must be Tuesday," Tony muttered, and Steve started laughing as he turned toward the portal, because he really had missed this. They could be friends again, couldn't they? The past was past.

Tony was at his side, meeting his eyes, one last determined glance, and then they leaped through the portal together.

* * *

Even before he hit the ground on the other side of the portal, the first thing Steve noticed was the cold. The air was thinner, and the chill of it stung at his throat and chest: wherever they were now, they were high enough or north enough that winter had not quite yet receded. He landed hard, and his boots crunched on a drift of compacted snow; Tony settled down more gracefully next to him, landing with a flare of light.

They were alone in the middle of a clearing, in front of the cabin, surrounded by at least ten portals identical to the one that had brought them here, all showing varying scenes: a suburban yard, a grimy alleyway, the pale sands of a beach with palm trees in the distance. 

And then, at once, all the portals shut.

"That hasn't been five minutes," Tony said, and Steve supposed he must have been running a timer inside the suit. "And if they've been opening the portals on a schedule and just waiting for people to come through as it suits them, my guess is that whoever's been creating the portals is inside and just did a final headcount."

It made sense. The only reason for them to have deviated from the schedule was if they no longer needed it. And they'd clearly been summoning people from all over. They must have gotten everyone they needed. Whatever they were going to do, they were about to do it. And that meant it was Steve's job to stop them.

"Any idea where we are?"

Tony shook his head. "Too much magical interference to tell. I'm detecting massive magical energy readings from that cabin, and at this distance it's temporarily disabled most of the suit's higher functions. I've got flight and weaponry, but anything else will have to wait."

"No problem," Steve said. "We just take down everyone inside and then you can tell us where we are, right?"

Tony's laugh was a familiar hiss of static. "I knew I liked you for your optimism." There was a pause, like he'd wanted to say something else. "Yeah, once the magic's knocked out, we're good to go."

"All right," Steve said. "Then let's do this before whoever's inside gets started with their plans."

There might, of course, have been some entirely benign reason to summon a bunch of robed people to the middle of nowhere, but Steve doubted it. At any rate, they'd have the truth soon enough.

He hefted his shield and jogged through the snow toward the cabin; to judge by the uneven, worn track and the sheer variety of footprints punched through the crust of the snow, it looked like a good number of people had been this way. Tony followed him.

There was a window next to the cabin door, dozens of tiny panes of glass set in a wood frame, but through the window the inside of the cabin was still, and everything was quiet. They had to be in there, though. Where else could they have gone?

The door was coated in worn, flaking green paint, and when Steve put a hand to it, the doorknob turned; they'd left it unlocked. He raised his shield, and he was aware, without looking back, of Tony standing just behind him. They were covering each other, instinctively, the way they'd always done, as if they'd never stopped.

Steve eased the door open, and the rusty hinges squealed.

Inside, he took in the rooms as fast as possible; they were in a small sitting area with an overstuffed chair, a couch, and a pile of blankets, with a heater at the far end of the room as a welcome source of warmth. The sitting area opened up ahead of them into a dingy kitchen and pantry, the scratched kitchen table bookended by a pair of wooden chairs. There was a door to a bathroom, open and unoccupied, and a linen closet, and then what Steve was assuming was a bedroom, its door closed. The whole place was tiny. And empty. The creaking of the floorboards as he and Tony moved further in was the only sound.

Where was everyone?

There was only one room to check, really. Steve ran across the room to the bedroom door and slowly pushed it open.

It wasn't a bedroom.

The intended use was obviously some kind of storage room: there was a chest freezer and a few solid wooden cabinets. But the part of the room that drew Steve's attention was the floor. In the middle of the floor, next to a rumpled area rug, hastily pushed aside, was a hinged wooden panel with a ring bolted to the middle. A door.

There was a basement.

Steve raised his hand and beckoned to Tony. "Iron Man! Over here."

The floor creaked even louder as Tony ran across it in full armor. Then Tony stopped and stared, and he knew Tony had seen it too.

"Could they get any more cliché?" Tony asked. "Okay. Ready whenever you are, Cap."

Steve got a firm grip on the door and tugged upward. The panel swung up and he could make out a flight of wooden stairs below, barely illuminated by some unseen, flickering light, even further beyond. There was just enough room for them to go down one at a time.

Steve raised his shield and descended into the darkness.

* * *

The basement was huge.

The staircase here was taking them down to the far edge of a cavernous, dank space: high-ceilinged, dirt-walled, dirt-floored, and at least three or four times bigger than the tiny cabin above.

The basement was entirely full of dark-robed figures. There had to be at least thirty or forty people, and even though Steve was fairly reflective and Tony was literally glowing, no one paid them any attention, because what they were attending to was even worse. They stood in a huge circle, their heads tipped down, presumably with their eyes shut, each holding hands with the person next to them, murmuring in unison in a language Steve couldn't identify.

There was a huge circle painted on the floor, a ring that they were standing around; Steve could see glimpses of it between the robed figures. The floor was covered in bizarre symbols and words in half a dozen alphabets. The paint, such as it was, was reddish-brown and had the all-too-familiar sickening smell of drying blood. 

So much for their intentions being pure.

"Stephen Strange," Tony said in his ear, over the local comms; Steve supposed those still worked too. "Wanda Maximoff. Jericho Drumm. Think of all the people you could have brought along for this mission."

"I could have brought them, sure," Steve subvocalized, letting the comm pick up his nearly-silent words. "But you know I have more fun with you."

He couldn't resist a bit of banter. If he acted like everything was fine, it would become fine. The past would be gone. They wouldn't have to think about it.

Tony laughed in his ear. "I hope you remember that when I can't save you from being eaten by a demon, Winghead."

The old nickname made Steve smile, made a sudden warmth blossom in his chest. Other people called him that too, of course, but it had always sounded the best from Tony. He'd missed it so much.

"I'll be all right."

Steve went down the rest of the stairs as quickly as he dared, not wanting to draw attention, but still none of the robed people looked up, not even when he hit the bottom and Tony hopped off the last stair behind him. They were in the shadows, still, and the circle of hooded figures began to chant even louder.

There was a pinprick of light in midair, in the very center of the circle, something akin to the portal that had brought Steve here. It flickered, glowing with a dark and malevolent energy, and the ragged edges of the portal pulsed as the portal grew. It grew with each pulse, the rip in the fabric of the universe gaping wider. It grew in time to the pulses of light, like a flurry of punches in an attack, as if some creature on the other side of the portal were trying to claw its way through to reality.

The comm crackled in Steve's ear. "Check out the color scheme on the robes," Tony said. "I bet I know who's in charge here."

Now that Steve was closer, now that the light from the portal was brighter, he could see that the robes weren't all dark: there were figures in red robes. Every fifth person, evenly spaced around the circle, wore a crimson robe. And there was one mysterious figure whose crimson robes were edged in black. He—Steve thought this one was male—wasn't holding the hands of either of the people next to him. He was holding a book, an old, leather-bound book, and reading from it. He was, Steve saw, actually leading the chant: he said a few alien words and the rest of the circle echoed him.

"I see him," Steve murmured, and he slid his shield off his forearm and let it settle into his hand, balancing it, picturing the arc that its flight would take. "You want to do the honors, or should I?"

"It's your mission," Tony said. "Go on. I'll cover you."

Tony stepped up behind him, the way he always did, and Steve half-smiled at the familiar rising whine of repulsors coming up to full combat charge.

Steve breathed in, breathed out, took aim, and let the shield fly.

The shield sailed across the room and struck the lead cultist dead on in the center of his chest. He staggered and fell back, dropping the book, which landed... inside of the circle.

The glowing light went bright, and then it dimmed to a low, sickly green. The portal was changing color.

A ripple of dismay went around the circle. There were startled gasps, and then shouting, and as the shield flew back to Steve's hands the rest of the room finally noticed their presence.

The nearest red-robed cultist pushed back her hood, shook out her hands from the sleeves of her robe, and cast an energy bolt in their direction, a crackling yellow ray of light that Steve just barely blocked, crouching low. Tony raised an armored hand over Steve's shoulder and returned fire; the cultist went down.

They couldn't split up; they'd both go down if they did. They needed each other for cover and for offense. Tony couldn't block, and Steve couldn't shoot back.

"Stay on me!" Steve yelled.

"Believe me," Tony called back, "I'm not going anywhere!"

But most of the figures didn't seem interested in fighting back. Of the remaining red-robed figures, only two or three of them were shooting, and the rest were... opening portals?

Steve watched in confusion as a tall man sketched out a symbol in the air and snapped his fingers, and then a blue-edged portal opened, looking very like the ones that had been in the clearing. The man stepped back and started to herd the rest of the cultists through.

"Go! Go!" the man was yelling at the other cultists. "Run!"

After most of the people had leaped through, the man glanced back at the greenish portal in the center of the abandoned circle. The portal was wider now, and the look on the man's face was pure terror.

It wasn't Steve and Tony they were trying to get away from.

The man leaped through, and the portal closed behind him.

There were three remaining figures, all red-robed. One, the man in black-edged robes who had had the book, was on the floor, crawling weakly away from the circle. The second had made a massive portal and was moving the rest of the cultists out, and the third was shooting. Steve gritted his teeth as an energy blast hit the shield, rocking it in his grip. Tony stayed behind him and kept firing with both hands.

The green portal was wider and wider still.

After a few more missed shots, Tony connected with a repulsor ray, and their assailant toppled backwards. The other cultists didn't even blink; the second man shoved his unconscious fellow cultist through the escape portal, and then he jumped through and let it fall closed.

The leader, the only one left, was still trying to crawl away.

Steve ran across the room.

The man didn't even put up a fight when Steve picked him up by the front of his robe. His hood fell back. He was middle-aged, balding, and honestly he looked more like what Steve would have expected from some kind of manager rather than a magical cult leader. He was sweating and gasping for breath, trembling, terrified. He wasn't even looking at Steve; he kept glancing over at the portal. His eyes were wide and dazed; his skin was ashen.

"You _idiots_ ," the man spat. He was shaking. "You fools. Do you know what you've done?"

Steve's fist clenched in the fabric of the robe. "What did you summon? Tell me!"

Tony's left hand was splayed wide, the repulsor charged up for another blast. Steve could see its light reflected in the cultist's eyes.

"It was supposed to be Chthon," the man gasped.

Chthon. Steve was only vaguely familiar with the name, but he was positive that wasn't anything good.

"Oh, no," Tony said. He had clearly placed the name better than Steve had.

The cultist struggled in Steve's grip, but not like he was trying to get away from Steve. He was glancing over at the portal again, and he swung in the air like he was trying to throw himself further from it.

"You interrupted the ritual." The man was panting. "It's not Chthon anymore. It's not going to be Chthon. It's so much worse. You have no idea what you've done."

Tony's voice was hard. "Close the portal."

The cultist smiled a nasty smile. "I can't. It's your problem now."

He sketched out a symbol with his free hand and... disappeared.

Steve was left clutching an empty robe.

The green light brightened, and when Steve lifted his head, the rip in the fabric of the universe was a good ten feet high, and through it there was movement. The world on the other side of the portal was dark, though the portal itself was bright, and Steve could barely make out something slithering in the dimness.

If it was worse than Chthon, they were all going to die.

"There's still too much magical interference," Tony said. "I can't call for more backup. I'm sorry."

Steve took a deep breath and lifted his shield. "Well," he said, "I just want to say that it's been an honor."

If they were going down, they were going down fighting.

"Likewise," Tony said. His hands were raised, palms back, angled at the portal; he was braced for combat, a pose Steve had seen a thousand times. He supposed it was how he was going to remember Tony.

That was when the tentacle monster heaved itself through the portal.

* * *

The monster was hideous, awful almost beyond description, a creature out of nightmares. Steve was used to fighting sneering, costumed villains. He was used to fighting _humans_. He hadn't been prepared for this. He raised his shield higher even as he could feel his stomach clench and roil, some atavistic urge deep within him saying that here, now, this was a thing to fear.

It was a slick, oozing mass of tentacles. There was no shape to it, no form other than the tentacles. They were huge tentacles, at least eight or ten of them, dark green. At their base they were easily each as wide around as Steve and Tony put together, and they stretched and tapered for a good ten or fifteen feet each. One side of each tentacle was a paler green, dotted with suckers, like an octopus. The whole creature was glistening, wet, covered in viscous slime.

"Oh boy." Tony's voice was weary with resignation and an undercurrent of bitter, sardonic amusement. "Tentacles. My favorite."

The portal was closing around the monster, although it didn't snap shut completely the way the other portals had. Rather, it closed on the monster itself, so that sickly green light crackled about the base of the tentacles and shone along their length, providing the suggestion that the massive bulk of the monster itself was holding the portal open, and that there was more of it to come if it kept moving forward—or rather, upward and outward.

And then a voice thundered through Steve's mind. _Ah, sustenance_ , it said. It didn't speak aloud; the words had the almost-hallucinatory echo that Steve associated with broadcast telepathy. He had the impression of a vast and chaotic intelligence, some ancient great beast, entertained by the weak flailing of humanity. _So much life_. There was a sense of laughter. _I shall require your vital essence_.

That didn't sound good.

Steve gripped his shield tightly. "No, thanks," he said, as coolly as he could. "I'll pass."

One tentacle coiled in on itself, and then raised itself high in the air, a slow, ponderous movement. At least this was going to be easy to counter, Steve thought—

—and then, as fast as the crack of a whip, it snaked forward, wrapped itself around Tony's ankle, and yanked. Hard. And Tony went flying with it, forward into the monster's grasp, his arms and legs waving wildly as he dangled and spun. And then Steve couldn't see him anymore; the body of the monster had turned, and Tony was behind it, somewhere in the darkness.

"Tony!"

"It's okay," Tony panted, in his ear. The comms crackled. "I'm okay. I'm fine. This isn't my first tentacle monster. I fight them all the— oh, no—"

Tony swung back into view, and the situation had rapidly become worse. One of his legs was free. The other was still wrapped in a tentacle. He was being held upright now, by means of a tentacle looped around his throat, and he had both hands on it, twisting in midair, trying to pull it away.

There was the awful creaking noise of metal being bent. It was crushing Tony. It was choking him. Oh, God, it was going to kill him.

Steve took a step forward and threw his shield, hard, at the tentacle holding Tony by the neck. It was a perfect throw, and he could see it in his mind, just where the shield would hit, how it would impact the thick mass of the tentacle, how the tentacle would recoil—

Another tentacle snagged the shield right out of the air.

Steve watched in dismay and horror as the tentacle waved the shield high, holding it across the convex face of the shield. There was a wet noise of suction. The tentacle, clearly, had an excellent grip.

Goddammit.

Okay, so he didn't have his shield. But he still had his body. He could do this. He could save Tony. He ran, bracing himself for the jump, and then he sprang into the air, flinging himself toward Tony.

A tentacle shot out, swinging through the air in a huge arc, and slammed into Steve, across his chest, driving all the air from his lungs in one heaving rush and sending him sailing backwards into the shadows.

He hit the far wall, gasping, and for a few disorienting seconds there was nothing but pain.

 _No_ , the tentacle monster said, in Steve's head. Its tone was didactic, chastising, like an owner with a misbehaving pet. _Aid is not permitted._

"Like hell," Steve rasped, and he struggled upright. "I'm not going to let you touch him."

He was aware as he said it that he didn't exactly have a choice. He could see Tony hanging there, swinging, fighting the hold, suspended within the mass of tentacles.

The comms in Steve's ear crackled and clicked, on and off, and Steve guessed the system didn't have much time left. He could hear Tony panting raggedly, in heavy, harsh breaths.

"Don't count me out yet," Tony said, in Steve's ear, low and determined. "I've still got weapons."

Tony let the tentacle around his neck stay looped there, not fighting it, and for an instant Steve didn't understand what he was trying to do, because he couldn't mean to let it choke him. Then one of Tony's hands slid along the tentacle, along and away from himself, and Steve got it: Tony was trying to angle his grip so that a ray through the tentacle wouldn't hit his own body on the other side.

"You want me, huh?" Tony spat out, addressing the monster. "Take _this_."

Tony's gauntlet glowed bright, and then energy crackled all along the tentacle. There was an unearthly howl of pain, and the limb sagged back as the repulsor ray shone out and flashed through the darkness, carving a long divot into the dirt floor.

For a second, maybe two, there was only one tentacle on Tony. He was nearly free—

And then three more tentacles smashed into Tony, wrapping themselves around him so completely that Steve could hardly make out the sheen of the armor under the writhing, slick mass of dark green flesh. They covered his entire body.

"Tony!" he yelled, and another tentacle tripped him as he tried to run forward. He crashed hard, skidding across the dirt.

"Steve!" Tony said in his ear, the word so distorted through the dying comm system that Steve could hardly make it out. "Run! Get out of here! It can read your mind! It knows—"

There was a hiss, a crackle, and a muffled crunch. The comms went dead.

And then there was a very familiar metallic clicking noise, and then another. The emergency armor releases.

The goddamned monster could read their minds, and it knew everything Tony knew about the suit. And that meant it knew how to take him right out of the armor.

The helmet came away as a tentacle pitched its shattered remains across the room, and Steve was now staring at Tony's bare face. Tony was wild-eyed, too pale, and his teeth were gritted as he struggled.

"Go!" Tony yelled.

Another tentacle swept Steve backwards again. The monster didn't want him going anywhere.

He could see more of Tony as the monster peeled off the armor in silver-red pieces: one gauntlet was carried away, then the other, and then the chestplate and backplate fell with a clatter. Each piece was twisted, deformed by the tentacles, made useless. Tony wasn't wearing much of anything under the armor, bare to the waist. Steve could see that he was too thin, his ribs visible, which made a bad situation even worse. He wasn't going to be able to stand up to this.

There was another crunch, and the groin plates fell away. A tentacle curled around Tony's midsection, and another around Tony's legs. Steve saw a boot go flying.

Tony was wearing exactly one piece of the suit, and he knew how to make it count: one breath, two, and then the last bootjet triggered with a high, broken whine.

Tony rocketed forward, off-balance, and he was free. He was crawling across the floor wearing only his underwear and a single boot, but he was finally free.

Lunging forward, Steve dodged the tentacles that came for him, ducking the first and leaping over the second, and he grabbed Tony's left arm—

A tentacle wrapped around Tony's waist, and another tentacle yanked his boot off, and together they started to drag him backwards. Steve locked his other hand around Tony's arm too and pulled as hard as he could. It was the worst game of tug-of-war he could possibly imagine, and if he lost, Tony would die.

 _Steve_ , Tony said, but his mouth didn't open when he spoke, and Steve remembered what Tony had said about the monster and its telepathy. It could read their minds. Somehow it had made them able to read each other's minds.

The tentacle coiled tighter around Tony's waist and up his spine, fastening on with huge suckers, and Steve could feel each point of suction climb up his back as if it had been on his own body. Tony thrashed in its implacable grip and then the suckers went tighter. Tony twisted in his bonds. Steve was still desperately holding on to Tony's arm. The tentacles pulled harder.

Something had to give, and it was Tony's shoulder.

Steve could feel the horrible, agonizing wrenching, a lightning strike of pain, as if it were his own shoulder. Tony's mouth opened on an awful sob, a scream, and there were tears trickling down his face.

"Go!" Tony shouted again, his voice raw. "That's an order, Avenger! Leave me!"

Tony's terrified mind broadcast the opposite opinion, a litany of fear, a string of near-incoherent prayer: _please don't leave me oh God oh God I don't want to die like this oh God I hope it's quick oh God I don't want to die for nothing please at least let it be quick please don't let Steve have to watch this please_ —

Tony's skin was slick, covered in tentacle slime, and Steve's hands finally, finally slipped.

The tentacles bore Tony back, holding him high, unarmored and vulnerable, pulling his arms and legs apart as if to draw and quarter him, and no, God, no, this couldn't be it. This couldn't be how it would end.

Steve barely had the strength to fight as another mass of tentacles knocked him backwards. One slimy tentacle wrapped around his waist, hooked into his belt, and dragged him back and down, forcing him to his knees. A smaller, more agile tentacle tip ripped the comm out of his ear and yanked the cowl back before retreating. The tentacle about his waist loosened and shifted—and then held his hands together behind his back.

He was helpless. He wasn't going anywhere.

He could feel the monster sift through his mind, picking up information, casting through memories and letting them fall. It clearly wanted to learn everything it could before killing them.

 _Foolish mortals_ , the monster said. _If I desired your lives, I would have your lives._ The tentacle that was wrapped about Steve's wrists constricted, a lazy threat. _Do you not understand me? I require your vital essence. One of you will suffice._

Steve had to admit that he didn't understand. He could feel Tony's own distant confusion, clouding his mind. Tony didn't understand either.

The monster held up another tentacle, high in the air, and Steve watched as the tentacle drew closer to Tony. Tony was still struggling in midair, held spread-eagled by four tentacles. He was shaking. He was shivering, too; it was cold down here in the basement, and much like the recent mission where Tony's identity had been revealed, Tony was wearing only a very small pair of underwear, satiny red. Now was not the time to think about that, Steve told himself.

The very tip of the tentacle was slender, almost delicate, and it glistened in the dim light. It brushed against Tony's collarbone gently, the motion very much like a caress, and then it drifted slowly downward across his chest and stomach... and then down further, sliding between Tony's thighs as the two tentacles on his legs pulled Tony's legs even wider apart.

Tony made a quiet, strangled noise that might have been surprise, or dismay. He was holding perfectly still.

Oh, no.

Suddenly Steve had a very, very good idea of what _vital essence_ meant.

The tentacle continued to fondle Tony, in a slow, undulating motion—and then, whip-quick, the tip of it hooked into the side of Tony's underwear and tore off the remaining scrap of fabric. Tony hung there naked, fully bared to Steve's gaze for an instant, until the tentacle once again curled possessively around Tony's still-soft cock, petting him, stroking him with the lightest of touches.

"No!" Steve's voice was hoarse. The cry tore at his throat. "Leave him alone! You want one of us, you bastard, then take me! Take me instead!"

Steve was strong. Steve had a healing factor. Whatever the monster did, Steve could survive it.

He wasn't so sure that Tony could.

 _Oh, but Captain_ , the monster whispered in his mind, in a tone that Steve might have called a purr, softly enough that Steve knew he was the only one of them who could hear it. _He is so fine and sweet. And he has already offered himself to me. He wishes to spare you my touch._

Tony raised his head and met Steve's eyes. "It's okay," Tony murmured. "It's all right. I can do this. I do this, and it lets us both go. It won't hurt you. It promised. Everything's going to be all right."

And Tony believed the monster? How could he believe anything the monster told him? And how could he think Steve was the one who needed protecting?

"It's not all right—"

Tony gave him a weak, wan half-smile, a twitch of his lips, but his gaze was determined, his voice calm and level. "Everything's going to be okay, Steve."

Dear God, why was Tony the one reassuring _him_?

He swallowed, his mouth gone dry. He didn't know what to say.

A tentacle caressed Tony's cheek, and Steve watched Tony shudder and close his eyes as the tentacle stroked over his jaw, down his throat, and to his chest. The tentacle flipped over, pressing its suckers in a long line across Tony's chest, and Tony's mouth opened soundlessly. When the tentacle lifted away and moved on, Steve saw a line of ring-shaped bruises where it had been, and then the tentacle glided back up and did it again. The very tip of the tentacle teased Tony's nipple.

Tony's eyes were open now, unfocused, his head lolling to the side. He was panting, shallowly, but Steve could hardly hear it over the pounding of his own heart.

Another tentacle came from behind and dove between Tony's legs, joining the one that was still there, and Jesus, Steve shouldn't look, he _shouldn't_ look, but he had to know what it was doing to Tony. He had to know, he had to see in case it hurt Tony. He needed to know the extent of the injuries.

The tentacle between Tony's legs glided over his balls, fondling them gently, as the tentacle that was still wrapped around Tony's cock rippled tighter, pumping him in a wave of motion.

Tony made a soft, surprised sound of protest and Steve watched, half-sickened, as Tony's cock twitched and started to harden in the tentacle's grasp.

He wanted to look away. He couldn't look away.

There was an uncomfortable pressure in the pit of Steve's stomach, a slurry of anger and shame. This wasn't right. This shouldn't be happening.

But it was, and there was a goddamn tentacle monster trying to get Tony off, and here Steve was, and he couldn't do anything but watch. He yanked in vain at his bonds.

Tony wasn't broadcasting his thoughts as much as he had been earlier. All Steve could sense from him was a determined, almost detached calm. _Don't think about it_ , Tony was thinking. _Just go with it. It'll be okay. Think about something else. Think about something sexy. It'll be faster._ There were hazy pictures in Tony's mind, then: bright blue eyes, a loving smile, the hard planes of a muscular body—

Steve backed away from Tony's mind then, hastily, because there were limits, and Tony had a right to his fantasies. Whatever got him through this was fine.

There was another tentacle behind Tony now, this one wetter than the others, glimmering and glistening. Steve couldn't quite see it from this angle but he had the unfortunate feeling that he knew exactly where it was going to end up. It stroked down Tony's back, and then—

Tony's eyes went wide.

 _Oh, fuck, here we go_ , Tony thought, and there was a snap of discomfort down the telepathic link, a burning pressure. Steve could feel the ghost of it, forcing Tony open, and he could only imagine what it felt like directly.

The tentacle pushed forward and in. Tony grimaced, quivered, and then held himself still, his body gone rigid, tensing up at the intrusion.

Tony's thoughts were loud, but not directed at Steve; they were a chant of encouragement. _Breathe. You can do this. Keep breathing. Stay still. Don't fight it. It will only hurt more if you fight it. Oh, fuck, but that's huge. Breathe. Relax. Stay calm. Deep breaths. Don't tense. Breathe. In and out and— aw, fuck._ Tony's eyes were wet. He was fighting back tears. _It'll be over soon_ , Tony was telling himself. _You just have to get through this. You've had worse, Stark._

Horrified, Steve watched as the tentacle pushed deeper, and Tony half-sobbed and groaned in response. Steve could feel the ache deep within him through the telepathic link, the stretch and the burn—God, it was so much, it was splitting him open, it had to be. How could Tony possibly take this?

The tentacle was fucking Tony in earnest now, its slick green flesh sliding in and out and in, and Tony was crying out with every thrust and visibly trying to curl away, a reflex he'd stopped trying to check. There was nowhere else for him to go. The telepathic link attenuated. Steve could feel Tony's mind blank out, as Tony tried to go somewhere else in his head, somewhere that wasn't here, somewhere that he didn't have to feel any of this. It felt like an old, old defense mechanism, something from long before Tony was ever Iron Man, and Steve realized with an awful rush of sympathy and despair that there must have been a reason Tony knew how to dissociate like this and, God, he never wanted to know what it was, he never wanted to think about Tony having been hurt like this, having been hurt too much to bear, and he didn't want to know this, he didn't want to see this—

Tony's cock had gone soft again, even with the tentacle wrapped around it, pumping in time to the tentacle in his ass. Steve wasn't surprised. It didn't seem possible for anyone to perform under these conditions.

But it didn't look like the tentacle monster knew that, and the chance that it was going to seriously injure or even kill Tony while trying to get him to come was increasing.

"You're hurting him!" Steve yelled, straining against his bonds, and Tony didn't so much as flicker an eyelid at the sound of his voice. "He can't do what you want! Not like this!"

There was a tendril of quizzical thought from the tentacle monster, and then Steve felt it in his mind again, and he could tell exactly what memories it was going for: his goddamn sex life. They were Steve's memories, goddammit, they didn't belong to this beast, this beast who was marveling at warm-edged memories of Bernie and then Sharon, smiling and laughing and drawing him close. The monster pushed through them to older memories, the war, the men whose names Steve never knew, GIs grinning and fumbling with uniforms, their hands sliding under clothes, their mouths hot and knowing.

 _He is not enjoying himself_ , the monster said, finally, in a tone of wonder, and it felt like a question. Like it hadn't known that.

 _No_ , Steve thought back, as firmly as he could. _He is definitely_ not _enjoying himself._

The smallest, most ashamed part of Steve's mind wondered if he could help, if the monster would let him help, what he could do, what it would be like to finally touch Tony even if neither of them had ever wanted this—

Tony let out a quiet, broken whimper. There was nothing in his thoughts but pain. Steve didn't think Tony was aware that anyone else was here. Not anymore.

The monster raised another tentacle, holding it high and curving the tip down. If Steve had thought the tentacle currently buried in Tony's ass was slick, this one was _dripping_ , a filthy mess, covered in an iridescent oily slime that looked to be just a shade thicker than water. Rivulets of shining liquid rolled down the tentacle, pooling around the suckers, sliding off the pointed tip, a quivering monument to obscenity.

Jesus Christ, Steve hoped the monster hadn't decided Tony needed a second tentacle in his ass, because _that_ — well, Steve thought that had a good chance of killing him.

 _He will enjoy himself_ , the monster declared, a solemn and almost stubborn pronouncement.

Yeah, Steve didn't see how that was going to happen.

The new tentacle was moving... upward. The tip of the tentacle traced a line up from Tony's hip, over his sucker-bruised chest, up the hollow of his throat and then higher, smearing glistening wetness over his jaw, his cheek, his cheekbone.

Steve didn't realize what it meant to do until well after Tony did. Tony was trying to twist his head away, his mouth moving in whispers Steve couldn't make out, his mind an endless weakened string of pleading, _no no no no no_.

Another tentacle wrapped itself around Tony's throat—more lightly than it had when Tony had been in the armor—and forced his head up, holding it immobile.

The oily tentacle glided over Tony's lips, and then it pressed itself in.

The tentacle around Tony's throat retreated, leaving a necklace of bruising, as Tony's lips stretched wide around the tentacle-tip invading his mouth. It looked— well, there was an obvious point of comparison as to what it looked like, Steve thought, as he watched the oily slick leak out of Tony's mouth and drip down his face.

The telepathic link was a little more present now: Steve could feel the weight and heft of the tentacle on Tony's tongue, the oddly sweet taste of the fluid that coated it. It wasn't trying to choke Tony. It just sat there, resting, as something in Tony's mind lifted, blossoming in contentment. There was the reassuringly pleasant feeling of being full, exactly the right amount of full, that Steve associated with giving a truly excellent blowjob.

Tony's cheeks hollowed, and he sucked ever so gently on the tentacle's tip.

Good God. Tony _was_ enjoying himself.

Tony glanced up, and he was looking in Steve's direction. Instead of the blank-eyed withdrawn absence that had characterized his expression in the encounter so far, his face was changed, entirely wrong in a different way. His gaze was sultry, his eyes dark with desire, half-lidded in ecstasy. His face was flushed, and it looked like he was trying to smile around the tentacle in his mouth. He moaned, a soft, wanton noise that Steve had never before heard from Tony's lips, but that Steve had no difficulty recognizing. This was what it sounded like when Tony _wanted_ —

To Steve's abject shame, disgust, and horror, he felt his own cock twitch and begin to harden, as the echo of Tony's pleasure reverberated through the link between them.

Tony went lax in the tentacle's grip, unresisting, and then he started to sway and swing, his hips rolling gracefully. He was—oh God—fucking himself on the tentacle in his ass, trying to impale himself further, like it was everything he ever wanted, when thirty seconds ago he'd been crying, trying to get away.

 _Yes_ , Tony's thoughts hummed. _Yes yes yes please more more more yes like that yes._

Steve drew a ragged breath, and he was exquisitely aware of his own growing erection, trapped in his too-tight uniform pants. This was wrong. He shouldn't like this. Tony wouldn't really like this. Tony didn't like this. But Steve's goddamn traitorous body didn't care because apparently all it cared about was that some part of Tony was acting like it liked this.

The tentacle that was coiled around Tony's rapidly-hardening cock began to ripple, the tip of it gliding over the head of Tony's cock and delicately scooping up every bead of pre-come before tightening and—oh, God, Steve could practically feel the little pinpoint dots of gentle suction.

 _So good_ , Tony thought. His mental voice was breathless, dazed with pleasure, like nothing had ever felt like this. _More_.

Steve watched a tentacle roll Tony's balls with its tip as the tentacles on Tony's chest laid down lines of sucker marks over his nipples, and Steve's cock throbbed in his pants, harder than he'd ever been in his life as he watched Tony give it all up, abandon himself to his lust, overwhelm himself from every possible direction. Tony was always in control. Tony would never have allowed himself this even in better circumstances, and watching it—getting off on it—was a betrayal of Steve's entire friendship with him. 

But Steve's body definitely didn't care.

Tony was rock-hard now, and Steve watched the tentacle twist and twine around Tony's—actually very impressive—erection. Steve had been good. Steve had never stolen glances. Hell, he'd practically kept his eyes averted during the entire Molecule Man fiasco. But now he couldn't look away. Tony was thrusting into the tentacle wrapped around his cock and whimpering around the tentacle in his mouth and greedily snapping his hips back for the tentacle in his ass, which Steve could tell was hitting him just right. The telepathic link was definitely not helping. Tony was on the edge of his own release, and Steve wished fervently that he could un-know this, because he didn't have the right to know what Tony's naked body looked like or what the breathy little moans he made sounded like or how it looked when his thrusts were beginning to stutter and go ragged.

Some horrible, despicable part of Steve wished he had a better view, wished he could see the way Tony's ass was held wide by the tentacle. And at that thought, Steve's cock jumped again. He was as hard as Tony was. His uniform was soaked with pre-come. He knew he'd always been sensitive, but he wondered if he could come just from watching, because apparently he'd never seen anything in his life that had done it for him as much as this.

 _Please_ , he thought _, don't let me come watching this, oh God, this is wrong, please, I can't—_

Of course, the tentacle monster heard him.

_Enjoying yourself, Captain?_

A tentacle skimmed up Steve's thigh and pressed against Steve's cock. Steve groaned, in misery and ecstasy and abject shame, because all it had to do was stay there a little longer and it would all be over. God, he was so close. His cock throbbed and it took everything he had not to shove himself forward and rub up against the tentacle, mindless, a beast in rut.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/42211/42211_original.png)

Steve gritted his teeth and breathed out. _No_. He sent back every feeling he could, a wash of hideous anger.

_Steve?_

The voice in his head was Tony's, and when he raised his head, he realized Tony was looking at him. Tony was practically quivering with need, but there was a fragment of recognition in his eyes. It wasn't quite full lucidity, but it was... concern?

Oh.

Tony could feel that something wasn't right with Steve. He could tell that the tentacle was touching him, and that he was upset. That was what it was. Tony cared. Even now, Tony cared.

Steve couldn't let Tony be distracted. Tony just had to think about himself. Tony had to come. And then it would be over.

 _I'm okay, Tony_ , he thought, as loudly as he could. _Don't worry. I'm okay._

 _Okay_ , Tony agreed, with what for him was a frightening amount of complacency, and then he let the tentacles take him again.

The tentacle tightened around Tony's cock again, rippling, pumping harder, a rhythm that—if Steve's preferences were any judge—was going to finish him off in about ten seconds flat. The tentacles on his chest pinched his nipples in unison, and the tentacle in his ass curved and rippled—Steve could tell—right against his prostate. He was close.

And Tony was still watching him.

Tony's gaze was fixed on Steve. He could tell Steve was hard. He could tell Steve liked it. God, Steve was about to come and Tony was _watching him_ and he knew, he knew everything, and the humiliation of that made everything worse, worse and better at the same time, and the tentacle pushed just a little harder on Steve's cock and that was it, that was it, he was gone, coming right there, on his knees, with Tony in his mind, with Tony watching every second of it.

He knelt there, gasping, head bowed, open-mouthed, and his cock spurted in his pants again and again as his orgasm washed through him, as the tentacle monster dragged him back and held him upright, as Tony's gaze didn't move from him. It was awful and wrong and the best Steve had ever felt.

He could feel his own pleasure echo through the link, and then Tony arched back in the grasp of the tentacles and came, spattering white across the dark tentacles as his hips jerked, as he emptied himself, as his desire rolled back over Steve like a wave, down their bond. His eyes fell shut. His face was transformed, radiant, and in the haze of his own orgasm Steve thought he'd never seen anyone more beautiful.

 _Yes_ , the monster hissed, contented. _His essence is most excellent._

Steve took one breath, then another, and shame flooded in as the bliss began to ebb away, and he was distantly aware that—of all the goddamn times for the serum to curse him—he was hard again. Already.

But this wasn't about that. This was about Tony.

"You got what you wanted," Steve called out, to the monster, proud of how steady his voice was. If you hadn't known he was a despicable mess of a man who'd just gotten off to his best friend being raped by a tentacle monster, you might almost have thought he was still a hero. "Now leave him alone. Go."

A few of the unencumbered tentacles coiled and uncoiled, waving in his direction; the monster was listening. Steve could feel the heavy weight of its mind, that alien regard, almost as a physical presence.

 _Agreed_ , the monster said.

The tentacles around Steve unwound themselves from his wrists, and Steve rocked forward and nearly fell.

The tentacles around Tony slithered out of his body. Steve could see something shiny and viscous beginning to ooze down Tony's thighs, and he hoped to God it wasn't blood. Tony made a soft noise of protest. Another tentacle uncoiled itself from his now-soft cock. The tentacle that had been in Tony's mouth slowly drew away; Tony's face was a mess of spit and oily tentacle slick, and it was clear from his eyes that he wasn't all there. More tentacles unwrapped themselves from Tony's chest, leaving dozens of ring-shaped marks across his skin. Dear God, it looked like the deeper ones were _bleeding_.

There were still the big tentacles clinging to Tony's arms and legs, supporting his weight. And then, all at once, they dropped him.

Tony hit the dirt floor hard, on his side, shoulder-first—the same shoulder that Steve had injured. The noise he made this time was unmistakably pain, but he didn't move. He only lay there, curled in on himself.

Steve realized he couldn't sense Tony's mind anymore.

The tentacle monster pulled itself backwards through the portal. Slick flesh dragged through the dirt as the portal stretched wide around it—and then, it was gone.

Steve's shield, which one of the tentacles had held this entire time, dropped to the ground. Vibranium rang out, clear and pure.

With the portal closed, the basement was dim and dark. Everything was quiet. All he could hear was Tony, breathing slowly and, somehow, calmly.

It was over.

* * *

If it had been up to Steve, he wouldn't have moved. He would have stayed here, covered in his own mess, here on the rough floor of the dark basement. It was no better than he deserved. His cock still throbbed insistently in his pants, like it didn't even care that he'd already come once. Like it didn't even care that he should be lower than dirt.

But Tony wasn't getting up, and Steve would die before he'd let Tony come to harm. Well, to more harm than he already had.

God, he'd brought Tony here. This was all his fault.

 _Man up, Rogers._ He didn't deserve to think about himself, he knew. Not now, not when Tony needed his help.

"Tony?" he called out.

Tony said nothing in reply.

Steve pushed himself to his feet, as fast as he could. Scooping up his shield on the way and affixing it to his back, he ran to Tony.

Tony lifted his head, weakly, and squinted up at him, like he couldn't even really see him. He probably couldn't. It was dark enough that Steve almost couldn't see. Tony was a pale shape in the dimness, his skin lightly mottled with shadows that were probably going to be massive bruises in daylight. Steve couldn't tell if Tony was bleeding; everything already smelled like blood, from what was left of the cultists' summoning circle.

Then Tony smiled. His face was smeared with whatever had been dripping from the tentacle, and he was looking at Steve the same way he'd been regarding him earlier—slow, sultry, a heavy-lidded gaze. His eyes were too dark, and they weren't quite tracking motion right. His breathing was a little deeper than usual.

"Steve!" Tony's voice was raw—given what had happened to him, of course it was—but at the same time he sounded so incredibly cheerful, like there was nothing in the world that could have been better than seeing Steve right here. "I'm so glad you're here." He sounded practically like he was floating.

Whatever the tentacle monster had coated that last tentacle with, whatever it had done to Tony to ensure his so-called enjoyment—Steve winced at the thought—it was still in effect.

And that meant that Tony was as high as the proverbial kite.

Steve made himself smile; he hoped that was reassuring.

"Yeah, Tony, I'm here," he said, and Tony beamed back. "How do you feel? Are you hurt?"

Tony was still grinning up at him. "I feel great," he said, entirely unworried. "Peachy keen. That was nice. So nice. So nice, Steve, did you know it was so nice?" His repetition now was almost urgent; he clearly felt it was important for Steve to know this.

But it hadn't been nice. That was the problem.

"I saw," Steve said, stiffly. "Look, we've got to get you upstairs, okay? Can you stand up? Can you walk?"

True to his word, Tony didn't seem to be visibly pained, but he was pushing himself upright with his non-dominant hand—his left shoulder, unfortunately, had been the one that had gotten wrenched and then slammed into the floor. His tongue was poking out of his mouth in concentration and Steve swallowed hard and shoved back every single thought about what he'd just watched Tony doing with his mouth.

It looked like Tony had forgotten everything he had once known about walking. Lost in contemplation, he stared at his own bare feet for several seconds, looked up, and then gave Steve a smile and a disturbingly lopsided shrug. "Don't know."

"All right." It was very much not all right, but it was what they had to work with. "Let's find out. Here, come on, let me help you up—"

He got a good grip around the least-bruised parts of Tony's torso—he hoped—and pulled Tony up to his feet. And Tony stayed on his feet for about half a second before toppling over onto Steve, throwing himself all over him. His arms went around Steve and he pressed his whole body up against Steve in a way that suggested he was doing it because he really, really wanted to touch as much of him as he could.

Steve's neglected cock throbbed in his pants and Steve gritted his teeth and thought maybe he was the worst person on the planet and did not think about Tony moving a few inches over and sliding his leg between Steve's thighs. It wouldn't have taken much. What in God's name was _wrong_ with him?

 _People have funny reactions to trauma_ , a distant part of his mind, a part that remembered how to be rational, informed him. _Value judgments aren't helping. Getting Tony out of here would be helping._

"Nope," Tony concluded, laughing. "Can't walk." It didn't seem to bother him any.

Steve took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll carry you. Is that okay?"

Tony just smiled, and Steve got one arm under Tony's shoulders and another under Tony's knees and lifted him up. He didn't know if he was used to carrying Tony in armor, but Tony felt almost disturbingly too light, and then all Steve could think of was the last time he'd seen Tony, the last time he'd carried Tony, the smell of smoke and the reek of booze and the terror of his pounding heart.

And, well, now he was covered in his own come and he had a hard-on that wouldn't quit. There was a phrase here involving the words _mighty_ and _fallen_.

"I'm so glad you're here," Tony repeated, and then his face twisted up, and Steve paused, halfway to the stairs, because now that looked like real pain, and God, what if he was hurting Tony? "You were gone. I missed you so much," Tony said, and he looked like he might actually start crying. "You weren't there. I stopped drinking. I stopped drinking just like you wanted, but you never came back." He sounded miserable, mournful. "I waited and waited but you never came. I was in the hospital for two weeks and you never came to see me. Did I do something wrong, Steve?"

The remaining fragments of anything that might have made Steve a good person had now crumbled and burned away. Jesus. Tony was drugged enough that he was going to tell him every thought in his head, everything he would never have wanted to say if it had been up to him. They couldn't talk about this. Not like this.

And Tony had been _in the hospital for two weeks_ and he hadn't known?

He'd been so concerned with his own goddamn pathetic feelings that he hadn't been there when Tony needed him. He should have asked. He should have found out where Tony was. He should have been there for him.

"Are you still mad?" Tony asked. He was wide-eyed. His voice was unsteady. "Is it because I ran away? I'm sorry I ran away. I'm better now."

Well, at least he knew now that Tony remembered that day. Maybe it would have been better for everyone if he hadn't.

It took a few raspy breaths before Steve could get himself under control enough to speak. Tony needed him. It didn't matter how Steve felt about it. Tony needed reassurance. Tony was begging him for it, drugged and begging him, maybe even more wholeheartedly than he'd begged for the tentacles, and this at least was something Steve could give him.

"I'm not mad," Steve said, and he wondered for a mortified, agonizing moment if _he_ was going to cry. "Oh, Tony. I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I didn't know. But I'm not mad, all right? I'm your friend. I'm always going to be your friend, no matter what, okay?"

Ha. Some friend.

This was obviously what Tony had needed to hear, though, because he brightened right up, bestowing a cheerful smile on Steve. His mood seemed to be able to shift very quickly. Labile. That was the word.

"Okay," Tony said, with perfect happiness, and then he turned his face into Steve's shoulder. He was practically _nuzzling_ him.

Affection was the last thing he deserved from Tony.

Mercifully, Tony fell silent as Steve carried him upstairs—and he couldn't help gasping in shock as he finally saw Tony in the light.

Tony was a _wreck_.

He was covered in dozens, maybe even hundreds, of little bruises from the suckers, rings of various sizes in criss-crossing lines wrapping around his body. The largest ones, from the huge handling tentacles that had been around his thighs and upper arms, were carved deeply enough into his flesh that a few of them were bleeding. Tony was covered in drying, crusting slime. And he was smiling up at Steve, lazily, contentedly, like this was some kind of afterglow.

God, Tony was so high.

This was wrong. This was so very wrong, but it was happening anyway.

"All right," Steve said, as he carried Tony out into the living area—which, thanks to the heater, was at least warm. He was talking partly to hear himself talk, because it wasn't like Tony cared right now, but he was also talking out his plan. He had to have a plan. He had to stay in control. Tony needed him. "This is what we're going to do. I'm going to put you down, somewhere nice and soft, okay? And then I'm going to examine you. Figure out how badly you're hurt. I'm going to be as gentle as I can, okay, Tony?"

He needed to think of it like battlefield first aid, because that was what it was. Triage. God, he hoped Tony wasn't bleeding internally. There wasn't anything he could do about that. He didn't even know if there was a first-aid kit in this place.

"Okay," Tony echoed, again. Oblivious to Steve's thoughts now, he was still smiling.

Steve readjusted his grip on Tony, picked up one of the blankets from the corner, and spread it awkwardly over the couch before placing Tony on it, laying him on his back. They might as well avoid getting the furniture dirty if they could.

Tony promptly snuggled up into the blanket as if it were the best thing he had ever felt. He stretched, luxuriantly, putting one arm—not his injured one—over his head and letting his legs splay open. He smiled again at Steve, a lazy, beautiful, utterly trusting smile.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/42419/42419_original.png)

It was awful looking at him, awful and wonderful in equal measure. There was something both horrifying and beautiful about seeing the long banded lines of marks wrapping around the smooth undersides of Tony's arms and the pale, delicate skin of his inner thighs. He knew Tony hadn't wanted it. He knew that. But if he had, this was what it would have looked like. Another secret, revealed before Steve's unworthy gaze.

And good God, Tony had sucker marks on his dick. Well, that was one thing Steve wasn't ever going to be able to unsee. He looked at it and saw again the way the tentacle had wrapped around Tony's cock, had embraced him in its coils. His own long-neglected erection began to rise again, and apparently Steve being disgusted with himself wasn't enough to dissuade his body about anything.

Steve took a deep breath. _Right. Stay professional._

"I'm going to examine your shoulder," he told Tony. "I want you to tell me where it hurts and how much. Don't tough it out. I need to know how much pain you're in."

Tony smiled dreamily, his gaze gone unfocused. "Zero."

This was going to be more difficult than Steve had thought.

He took off his gloves and laid them on the floor, because he needed as much dexterity as he could get, and also because everything he was wearing was covered in slime. He knelt at Tony's side.

He didn't deserve to touch Tony, but he did anyway. Tony's skin was cool under his fingertips. He hoped that wasn't shock.

Something was obviously wrong with Tony's shoulder. When he tried to lift Tony's arm and gently rotate the joint, Tony's eyes went cloudy.

"Does this hurt?" Steve asked.

Tony frowned, as if this question truly demanded all of his thought. "Don't know. It's weird. Don't think I can feel pain. Don't really care." He sighed happily.

Steve was just going to take that as a yes.

It didn't seem like the sort of thing that could be fixed by popping it back in; it must have been a different type of shoulder injury. They needed a real doctor. Unfortunately, all Tony had was him.

"I don't think there's anything I can do to fix it," he concluded. "I think if we immobilize it as much as possible, get it in a sling, put you on anti-inflammatories if I can find any around here—that's the best I can do. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. You're great," Tony said, and then he honest-to-God _giggled_. "You're perfect."

He definitely had not earned any compliments whatsoever from Tony.

"Okay," he said, deciding to ignore that. Now was the part he really wasn't looking forward to you. "I'm not done yet, though. I need to examine— I need to see, uh. Where the tentacle touched you." Geez, could he not even say it? His palms were sweating. "It's important. And I'm going to be as gentle as I can, but I want you to tell me if it feels wrong, okay? If it feels wrong or strange, I'll stop. And if you don't want me to touch you at all, I'll stop, because you have the right to tell me no. But if you let me look, it will help, because then I'll have some idea of how hurt you are. Just like any other exam, right?"

He didn't know why he was bothering to be so deliberate about this; Tony was high enough that he probably _couldn't_ tell him no even if he'd wanted to. For God's sake, the drug had made him not want to tell a tentacle monster no. But Steve needed to give him the choice.

Tony nodded, smiling. "You can touch me anywhere you want." His voice was low and full of a kind of promise that really shouldn't have been there. "Everywhere you want."

Steve was absolutely positive that wasn't an invitation and he'd be as bad as the monster if he interpreted that the way it sounded—but his body knew exactly how that sounded. He took a breath, trying to force everything else away. He was not going to think about the creeping, inappropriate desire pooling in his belly.

"You need to turn over." He thought this was what a doctor might have said. Calm. Professional. "On your stomach or on your side. I can help you if you need it."

"I can do it myself," Tony said; the familiar determination in his voice was oddly petulant.

When Tony rolled over onto his stomach, Steve realized it was going to be difficult to remain detached, because Tony looked like... like something out of some kind of hardcore pornography, some fetish that Steve hadn't even known existed until half an hour ago. Tony's movements were fluid, languid. He'd regained some of his fighting strength, and long lines of ring-shaped bruises trailed over the well-defined muscles of his shoulders, down his back, over the swell of his ass where—oh God—the tentacles had once pulled him apart. The bruises there were deeper. His skin was still slick, glistening, his thighs smeared with wetness, a debauched mess.

Lifting his head, Tony looked over his shoulder up at Steve and smiled like a goddamn pin-up girl, easy and enticing, his gaze dark-eyed through long lashes. He canted his hips, just a little. Offering himself up for more.

Steve went hot all over and he knew he was never going to be able to forget this. He wondered if maybe he was going to come in his pants again. At least Tony was too distracted to notice.

Very slowly, Steve brought his hand down on the small of Tony's back, letting his palm settle into the curve of it. Most of the bruising was either lower or higher; this was one of the few patches of unmarred skin.

"Mmm." Tony had pillowed his head on his arms now, but Steve could see the barest edge of his dazed smile. "That's nice," Tony said, dreaminess once again infusing his voice. "You have nice hands, Steve. Did you know that?"

"Uh," Steve said. "Thank you?"

"So nice," Tony told him. "Big and warm. Not soft, though. Too many calluses. Probably from your shield. But that's okay. Still nice. The nicest. I like when you touch me. I like it a lot."

Steve wondered if maybe he could get Tony to stop talking now. He didn't want to know. He did want to know. Tony was never going to forgive him.

Tony rocked his hips, pushing up against Steve's hand, and Steve was certain he was the worst person on Earth.

"I feel safe when you touch me," Tony whispered, like it was a secret. "I'm not supposed to. Supposed to be strong. A real man. Not supposed to be weak. Not supposed to want it." He said it like he was reciting a command from long ago. Tony didn't talk much about his family, but it didn't take much to guess who had taught him that. And he was going to be so upset when he realized he'd told Steve any of this.

"Shh," Steve told him. "It's okay."

What else could he say?

"I always liked it," Tony said. "Always. Since I met you." He still sounded unsure of himself.

"It's all right," Steve repeated. "It's all right to like it. Physical affection is... a good thing. It doesn't make you weak, Tony, I promise."

"You promise?" Tony echoed.

This was what Tony needed. He needed Steve to be here for him. "Absolutely."

Tony's smile was bright.

Steve swallowed hard. "Okay, Tony. Just one more second. This will be quick."

He took a deep, steadying breath, reached out with his other hand, and then he slid his hands to the curve of Tony's buttocks, parting them as much as he dared.

Thank God, there was no blood. Tony still looked... relaxed, slick with the slime that had coated the tentacle, and he was definitely going to feel it later, but he didn't look visibly injured. Steve breathed out—

"You could fuck me," Tony offered, a lazy suggestion, and he wriggled up against Steve's hands as Steve's heart pounded and he forgot everything except sheer terror and desire mixed together. "I can't come again, but it would feel so nice." His gaze now passed over Steve's groin, which was, unfortunately, at Tony's eye level. "You seem so sad. I don't want you to be sad. Wouldn't it make you happy? It would feel really nice. Then you wouldn't be sad. You'd like it."

It didn't mean anything. Tony couldn't consent to this. Tony didn't really want this.

"No!" Steve said, practically tripping over the word in his haste, and he yanked his hands away.

Tony's face contorted in pain. "You don't like me? You don't want to?"

Steve wondered if the universe was laughing at him. What had he done to deserve this? Was it because he'd brought Tony here? Was it because he had feelings for him?

"It's not about whether I want to." Steve forced the words through his too-tight throat. "I could hurt you more."

"It doesn't hurt," Tony assured him.

Steve wasn't sure how to put it in a way that wouldn't offend Tony more, but he had to try. "You're not yourself. You might feel differently later, when you feel more like yourself."

Tony would definitely feel differently later, of course, but Tony wasn't going to believe him now.

"Okay," Tony agreed, and Steve relaxed for about half a second before Tony added, "I could suck you off."

" _Tony_ ," Steve said, desperately, and his cock twitched at the thought of it.

Tony yawned. His eyelids were starting to droop; he was clearly drifting off. "I'm really good at it. It wouldn't take long. You could come right down my throat."

At least that answered the question of whether Tony was straight, Steve thought, half-hysterically.

"I'm falling asleep," Tony mumbled. "But you could still fuck me anyway. I'm still slick. You wouldn't have to do anything to prepare me. You could just use me. Nice and warm and tight for you," he said, and Steve wondered frantically what it would take to make Tony stop talking. "I don't mind. Then you'd be happy. I want you to be happy. S'good when you're happy. Best thing in the world."

He smiled, and then he was out like a light.

* * *

Steve would have liked to say that the first thing he did after that was something responsible. Perhaps even something heroic.

Instead he folded in on himself and curled up on the hardwood floor, at Tony's side. His pulse pounded in his head, he gasped for air, and all he could think about was his throbbing erection. He didn't consider what to do. There were no choices. He couldn't process anything beyond his body's urgent need. In another few seconds he had his fly undone and—oh, God, this wasn't going to take long at all—took his cock out, stroking himself with rough, tight strokes and biting back every groan of agonized relief that wanted to come out of his mouth, the way he'd learned to get himself off back in the war, when there was no privacy to be had. He couldn't chance waking Tony up.

He wasn't thinking about Tony. He wasn't thinking about anything Tony had offered. He wasn't thinking about anything he'd seen Tony do, because Tony hadn't wanted it and it would be wrong, it would be sick, and so he wasn't. He wasn't. He looked down at himself, at the flushed shaft of his cock gliding through his fist, and he wasn't thinking about Tony's hands, he wasn't thinking about Tony's mouth. His fingers tightened almost involuntarily, and he moaned, louder than he'd meant to.

Guiltily, he looked up, but Tony hadn't so much as stirred. Thank God.

But Tony had known before. The thought burned through him. He'd come watching Tony getting fucked and Tony had known, Tony had been looking at him, Tony had been inside his mind, Tony _knew_. The shame stung him, flew down his spine like lightning, tangled with desire. If Tony knew what he was doing now, if Tony knew that Steve had heard him offering himself up and been so overcome that here he was, perverted and appalling, jerking himself off and not thinking about Tony's warm, wet mouth, about the way Tony had let the tentacle in. He imagined Tony smiling and saying _I know what you really are_ and _you can't hide from me_ and _I know you liked it_ and _I know how much you want it_ — God, what if Tony were listening to him right now?

Steve gasped and came hard, spattering his hands, ruining his already-soiled uniform, as he trembled and bit his lip, trying not to make a sound as his release coursed through him.

There were only a few fleeting moments of pleasure before the guilt set in. What the hell had he done? What had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking. That was his problem. He was the lowest of the low. The monster had barely even brushed him; no, it was something wrong with him. He hadn't been made to do anything. He hadn't needed any help. He'd already been there. Hell, now he'd come twice. There were no excuses. If Tony found out, he'd never forgive him. The one saving grace was that Tony, presumably, had been too distracted to notice the thoughts in his mind—and now, well, Steve just wasn't going to tell him.

They'd leave, and they'd go their separate ways, and maybe Steve would quietly resign as Captain America, because he was positive that Captain America didn't do this. Captain America didn't get off on one of his best friends being raped by a tentacle monster. Dear God. He'd do it once they left.

But they were trapped.

They needed to get out of here.

He'd even forgotten about that.

Steve pushed himself to his feet, grabbed another blanket, and spread it over Tony, who didn't even move. He was going to pull himself together, because Tony needed him. All he had to do was not fall apart. For Tony.

He headed to the bathroom, and washed his hands. He splashed a little at the mess he'd made of his uniform, to no avail. That wasn't coming off without some scrubbing, but hopefully he'd be a little more presentable before the Avengers got here. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked, he thought, awfully tired. His face seemed almost hollow.

Right. The Avengers.

He fished his identicard out of his slime-covered belt pouch and stared at it in horror.

It was coated in slime and cracked down the middle. He could see the circuitry within, and it was covered in more slime. It looked corroded. The screen was blank.

He wasn't going to be able to call for help.

Okay. He could handle this. Tony was going to wake up soon. Maybe it was fixable. Maybe some part of Tony's armor was still working, enough to send a signal, now that the magical portals were all gone.

Failing that, they had to be _somewhere_. He could always hike out and get help for Tony. He tried to suppress the tiny voice within him saying that if the cabin's usual inhabitants got here by way of magic, they didn't necessarily have to be somewhere that was accessible for anyone else.

This was just a minor setback. That was all.

He set his ruined identicard on the edge of the sink and sighed.

If they weren't getting out of here anytime soon, he wanted a goddamn shower. 

At least the cabin had one of those. 

The shower was small, but there was plenty of hot water, and the demon-summoning cultists had thoughtfully left soap and shampoo. He stepped in boots and all, at first, and it took him at least ten minutes to get the slime out of his clothes, and then another ten minutes after he'd stripped down until he felt clean again. He rubbed at his skin until it stung and reddened.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/sineala/73031/42636/42636_original.png)

In the linen closet he found several clean towels, a fully-stocked first-aid kit—thank God—and a pile of spare robes, which wouldn't have been Steve's first choice of clothing but at least they fit. The black robe fell to his wrists and ankles, and he carried his uniform back to the main room and spread it in front of the heater to dry.

Tony didn't wake up, a fact for which Steve was very grateful.

He'd turned over onto his side, and he was clutching the blanket Steve had given him possessively, his entire body curled up under it. There were sucker marks on the backs of his hands.

He looked so small. Steve hated to think it, because if there was one thing Tony wasn't, it was small. He had always had a power, a presence; when he walked into a room, Steve always fancied he could hear everyone else draw a collective breath and stand a little straighter. And now he looked like he'd been trying to claw himself up from the edge of a precipice, and even now he might fall rather than fly.

"I'm so sorry," Steve whispered.

Tony still didn't move.

Well, Steve could do one thing for him. He could get Tony's armor and see if Tony could make anything of it later, because he'd be damned if he'd make Tony be the one to go back down there to retrieve it. So, barefoot, he headed down to the basement, and in three trips he had put every crushed piece of Tony's new armor in a pile upstairs next to the trap door, which he closed tight and pulled the rug over. It wasn't like doing this, closing the room off, could make any of the afternoon not have happened, but he felt better having done it.

Steve sighed and picked up a twisted piece of one gauntlet. It didn't look fixable to him, but he knew better than to underestimate Tony. If there was a way, Tony would find it.

He set down the gauntlet and headed to the kitchen, finding, to his relief, that it was fully stocked. Someone had even been shopping recently; there were perishables in the refrigerator. The pantry was likewise nearly full. All the cans were labeled in English, and they were brands Steve recognized. Therefore, they were probably still in the US. That was good. They hadn't gone that far. And Steve knew how to make a fixed supply of food last quite a while. Someone would find them. Someone had to find them.

When Tony was awake, they'd come up with a plan. They were Avengers. They could do this. Steve hoped the drug would wear off soon.

Steve hoped that maybe Tony wouldn't be able to remember any of it.

On cue, there was a rustling from the living area, and when Steve turned around, Tony was sitting up. The blanket had pooled around his waist, he was holding his left arm at an awkward angle, and he looked... distinctly uncomfortable. There was a clarity in his eyes that hadn't been there before, and his face set into something unreadable and almost cool. Remote.

He remembered, all right.

"Hi," Steve ventured, when Tony hadn't said anything.

What was he supposed to say? What did you say to your friend who'd been used by a tentacle monster? _Are you okay?_ It was obvious that Tony wasn't.

Tony glanced at Steve and then over at the bathroom door. "Did you save me any hot water?"

Oh. This was how it was going to be. They were going to pretend it hadn't happened.

Steve didn't know what to do.

"Yeah," he said, the word heavy and awkward in his mouth. "There should be some left. Do you— do you need help? Can you walk?"

"I've got this."

Wobbling, Tony pushed himself to his feet with his right hand, his upraised left hand just barely clutching the blanket in front of him, a sop to his modesty, and then he raised an eyebrow. It was a calculated move, a mask, an overcompensation. He dropped the blanket.

"Eh," Tony said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You've seen it all anyway."

The tentacles' bruises were darkening, beginning to stand out even more on Tony's skin. Tony took a step forward and—oh, God—he was limping.

Steve was halfway across the room, holding out his hands. "Do you want help? I can help—"

Tony shook his head. "I've got this," he repeated, louder.

"Tony—"

Tony practically rounded on him, or would have if he could have moved; he mostly just swiveled. "I've _got_ this. I don't need help, okay? I can bathe myself."

Steve held up his hands in surrender and wished he knew what he'd done wrong. "Okay. Okay. Let me know if you change your mind. I'll make dinner."

"Fine," Tony said, the word almost a snarl, and he limped off.

* * *

The stew was done and waiting, warm on the stove, by the time Steve finally heard the shower shut off. He'd decided that, since there were perishables, it made the most sense to use them first, and he'd stood there and chopped every vegetable he could find while the water ran and ran.

The floorboards creaked, and when Steve turned around, Tony was standing there—in one of the cultists' red robes—bracing himself on the doorway, scowling at a length of fabric between his hands. His hair was damp. Steve had hoped that he'd look a little better after a shower, and he did, but he was still obviously wounded; there were bruises at his wrists and ankles, bruises creeping up the side of his neck, all the way up to his ears. And he was still holding his left arm awkwardly.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," Tony said. His voice was very small. "Do you think you could— I can't seem to make a sling by myself."

Oh, geez. If Tony was actually asking for help, after the way he'd refused it—Steve couldn't even imagine how awful he must have felt. Tony was always so determined to do everything he could by himself.

Steve smiled, as if a smile could make anything better. "Yeah," he said, softly. "Yeah, of course."

Tony looked like he still wanted to snap at him, to be honest, but he stood there, unresisting, as Steve took the length of fabric from Tony's hands and rigged up a sling. After two tries he had it the right size, and as Tony rested his arm in it he slipped the whole thing over Tony's head.

"I found the first-aid kit," he added. "There's ibuprofen, and food to take it with. If we keep you on a steady dose—"

"No!" Tony's denial was almost frantic, and he shook his head wildly.

"What?"

"No," Tony repeated. He sounded a little calmer, but that didn't make the demand any more reasonable. "No painkillers. I— I can't. No."

"You'll feel better," Steve said. 

This didn't make any sense. How could Tony want to be in pain? It was just an anti-inflammatory. It wasn't like he was offering him a shot of morphine.

Tony was still shaking his head. "I'm fine. I'll get better. It doesn't hurt that much. I'm all right."

Incredulous, Steve stared at him. "Your arm is in a sling. And you're _limping_."

"I'll get better," Tony said again.

Steve knew better than to try to out-stubborn Tony. Okay, that wasn't fair; he clearly still tried to. But he liked to think that maybe he tried not to. _You tried at that flophouse_ , his mind whispered, and he wanted to cringe away. 

He wasn't going to push Tony. Tony's day had already been a nightmare, and Steve wasn't about to compound the pain by trying to take Tony's control of his own body away from him. Tony had had that enough. He didn't need it from Steve as well.

"Okay." Steve held up his hands. "Will you at least let me bandage up some of those wounds, though?"

His brow furrowed, Tony's stare was obstinate enough that Steve thought for a few seconds he was just going to refuse to make a point.

"All right," Tony said, finally. "Bandages, and then dinner."

"Sounds good," Steve told him, and he went to fetch the tape, gauze, and antiseptic from the kit.

When he came back, Tony had lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, and the smile he gave Steve was considerably more brittle; Steve was willing to bet that sitting hurt. He almost asked Tony if he wanted to lie down, but Tony would have if he'd wanted to.

He wasn't going to push him. He had to remember that. He'd already driven Tony away once.

Always so talkative, Tony was silent as Steve pushed up his sleeves for him and gently cleaned the worst of the wounds, high on Tony's arms. Tony's breathing went shallower as Steve held the gauze in place, and Steve didn't know what to say that wouldn't make it worse.

The thought that ran through his head, unstoppable, on a loop, was that Tony had told him he had nice hands. _I feel safe when you touch me_ , Tony had said. Steve wanted to ask him if that was true, if he'd meant it, if it was real; of all the things Tony had said, of all the obscene offers he had made, it had felt to Steve as if that one simple sentence, somehow, lived closest to Tony's heart. But Tony hadn't wanted to tell him, and obviously Steve couldn't bring it up now.

He wondered if he still made Tony feel safe.

"Can you," Tony began, awkwardly. "I mean, uh. There are a couple on my legs too."

It was easier to do this now that Tony was in his right mind. Steve would have been proud of his detachment, but it seemed wrong to praise himself for what should have been a given—that, and he was aware of exactly how much it hadn't been. He knew the dark, perverted, _wrong_ thoughts still lurked within him. If he could pretend hard enough, maybe they'd go away.

"No problem," Steve managed to say, and he hiked up Tony's robes for him and got to work on the huge scabbed-over mark on Tony's leg, a circle outlining his hipbone.

There were two more, and Steve bandaged those too, in silence.

"Thank you," Tony said, when he was done. It was the first thing either of them had said in long minutes.

Steve didn't offer Tony a hand up, because he knew Tony didn't want it.

After he finished ladling the stew into bowls and setting the table, he looked up to find Tony regarding the hard wooden chairs next to the table and wincing pre-emptively. Yeah, Steve wouldn't have wanted to sit on one of those either.

"Give me a second," Steve said, "and I'll put down a cushion or a blanket or something." He would have offered Tony the couch, but Tony wasn't going to be able to eat the stew one-handed, not without something to set the bowl on.

Tony grimaced. "I told you already, I'm fine. I'm not _fragile_."

"Okay," Steve said, too quickly. "Okay, sorry. I just— sorry."

Biting his lip, Tony sat down opposite Steve, but he looked up and smiled as soon as he tasted the stew. "This is good," he said, quietly. "Thank you."

Steve exhaled. Tony was going to be okay. He needed to not worry so much.

"You're welcome. I thought we should use the perishables first."

"Yeah, speaking of _first_ ," Tony said, in between slurps, "I saw the broken identicard you left me. And there doesn't seem to be a phone in this place. So much for communications, huh?"

"I brought your armor back up too, if—"

Tony was shaking his head. "Not a chance there. The comm system is out."

"All right." Steve tried to think about it. Out the window, the sun was starting to set. "Here's my proposal, then. The monster seems to be gone, and since we seem to be in a relatively safe place right now, with food and water and heat, I say we stay here at least overnight, and in the morning I can scout out the area, try to figure out where we are, and you can try to figure out if any of the comms are salvageable."

"They won't be," Tony said, with a more fatalistic streak than Steve usually saw in him. "But okay. Sounds good."

"There's going to be a way out of here," Steve told him. "There _is_."

Tony just ate his stew, in silence.

Tony thanked him again, when they were done, and insisted on washing out the bowls himself, even with only one good hand. After all, he said, Steve had done the cooking, and Steve couldn't argue with that.

It was definitely nighttime by the time everything had been cleaned and dried, and Steve regarded the single couch in the living area. It would have been better if there had been a bed for Tony, but Tony could take the couch.

"I think the couch folds out," Tony said, helpfully, and he bent down and lifted the corner of one of the cushions up, showing the bottom of a mattress underneath it. "We can both fit."

There was no way Steve was going to share a bed with Tony. Not after he'd— no. Not with all the hideous thoughts still rattling around his brain. He knew Tony couldn't tell what was in his head, not anymore, but he couldn't shake the feeling that lying there next to Tony would somehow let all the darkness within him leech out and ruin his friend. And he'd already given in to those awful base impulses while Tony had slept. No, the best thing was to be as far away as possible.

"No," Steve said, hurriedly. "No, I— no. That won't be possible."

Tony's face tightened, cold all over, and Steve had the sinking feeling that he'd wounded him.

"Okay." Tony's voice was hoarse. "Okay. I get that I'm— that you don't want to be near me because of what I—"

Oh, God, no.

"It's not that," Steve said. "It's not you."

"Oh." Tony's face fell, and his mouth twisted. He must have thought he understood what was going on here. "You know, it's okay if you're not okay—"

It wasn't. It wasn't, and he had to be okay, because he had to be here for Tony, and that meant not touching him. 

"I'm fine."

"Steve—"

"I'm fine." The last word came out harsher than he'd intended it to. "It didn't do anything to me."

No, the problem had been him; the problem had been in his head, all along.

"It touched you," Tony snapped back, and Steve went cold all over because what if Tony knew? "It touched you, and I _felt you_ in my head, and you felt like you were freaking the fuck out, which is a perfectly valid response, but for God's sake could you at least do me the courtesy of not lying to me about it?"

He didn't know. Steve was shaking. But Tony hadn't noticed what Steve had been thinking about, so it was okay. It was going to be okay. Tony thought Steve was only upset because the tentacle had brushed up against him. Ha. It wasn't like he'd even needed the tentacle. He would have already been gone. And that— that, Tony couldn't ever learn.

"It barely did anything to me," Steve pointed out. "Not like it did to—" He stopped. They couldn't just talk about this, could they? Not like this.

And it seemed that they couldn't, because Tony went pale. The fingers of his left hand tightened around the edge of the sling. "Jesus, Steve, it's not a competition!" Tony snapped. "You're allowed to not be okay with this!"

"I know," Steve said. "I know. I just— I'd rather sleep on the floor, okay?"

Tony's eyes went a fraction narrower, and then he sighed. "Well, it's not like I can stop you."

Steve supposed that was as good a place as any to leave it.

He helped Tony unfold the bed, in silence, and then he grabbed a pile of blankets and a pillow from the linen closet and stretched out by the heater, next to his shield. If anything came for them, he'd have it to hand.

Tony turned out the lights and climbed into bed; when Steve looked up, he could just barely make out Tony's face in profile courtesy of the meager light from the window. He didn't think Tony could see him at all.

"I know you won't believe me," Tony said, into the darkness, "but I'm all right." He sighed again. When he spoke, his voice was still tense. "I mean, okay, was this what I thought I'd be doing when I woke up this morning? No. But is it the worst thing that's ever happened to me? Also no."

Steve wondered what the worst thing was.

He wondered why it sounded like Tony was lying.

"All right," Steve said. "Good night, Tony."

"Good night, Steve."

He waited until Tony's breathing slowed, deep and even, and then he shut his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	2. Day Two

He woke before Tony did, but Tony opened his eyes as Steve was putting his now-dry uniform back on. The jingling of the scale mail must have given him away. Tony didn't move. He just looked at him, quietly, in the morning light. A beam of sunlight had fallen across his face. The bruising that Steve could see on his neck was darker.

"How are you?" Steve asked.

Tony was quiet, like he was trying to choose between answers. "Oh, you know how it is," he said, and his voice was almost cheerful. An act, surely. "Stiff. Sore. But it's always worse on the second day. Or maybe you don't know, Captain America." There was a bit of a teasing lilt to Steve's code name.

"I wasn't born with the serum," Steve said, as he finished pulling his boots on and stood up. "And, shockingly, I do know what it feels like to have been in a fight."

Tony's chuckle was mostly air. "Okay, fair. My turn to cook?"

Steve turned around and gave him a look. "Your arm's in a sling."

"Luckily," Tony said, and the word was perhaps icier than it needed to be, "I can still scramble eggs."

He watched Tony push himself to his feet—and, as he had said, Tony did seem stiffer than yesterday. The limp was more pronounced. But he didn't comment, and after Tony had headed off to the bathroom he folded the couch back up, folded the blankets, and piled everything out of the way.

"I could have done that," Tony said, when Steve was finished. "Also I don't think the evil sorcerers are going to care whether we've left their cabin in good shape or not."

"I care," Steve said—because he always did, didn't he?

Tony was snapping so much that Steve wanted to ask him what was wrong. But he knew what was wrong, didn't he? Tony was sore and hurting, because yesterday a tentacle monster from another dimension had—

Yeah, there wasn't going to be anything gained by talking about that. Tony clearly didn't want to talk about it.

Steve had to crack the eggs—and he earned himself another glare—but Tony managed to scramble and cook them by himself, and he dumped the majority of the eggs on Steve's plate without comment as the bread popped up from the toaster.

Steve didn't say anything as Tony winced even harder while sitting down.

This was the way Tony wanted it, he reminded himself.

"So," Steve said, as he dug in, "I was thinking I'd go on a bit of a hike. Try to figure out where we are."

Tony nodded. "Sounds good. I suppose I'll take a look at my armor and your identicard. There is a very small toolkit in the armor," he added, "but don't get your hopes up. Water damage, which is what this basically was—" Steve was grateful that Tony didn't feel the need to be any more specific— "is the kind of thing that usually requires replacement from the ground up, and I don't have the parts. I don't carry spares. So the prognosis is, shall we say, grim."

"I believe in you."

It was the sort of remark that usually made Tony smile, but he just... didn't. His face was perfectly blank.

"Thanks," Tony said, so quietly that even Steve almost couldn't hear him, and he looked away.

Steve reminded himself that he knew exactly what the problem was.

He wished he knew what to do.

He hadn't when Tony was drinking. He hadn't known what to say, what to do, and he'd done everything wrong, and Tony had left. Tony had left him and lost everything and somehow he'd ended up in the hospital, if what he'd said last night was true.

Steve just wasn't going to think about anything Tony had said last night. Tony had been drugged. He hadn't been himself. Bringing it up again would have been the worst sort of cruelty.

They ate the rest of the meal in silence. Steve did the dishes this time. And then, at a loss for anything else to do, he grabbed his shield, put it on his back, and headed to the doorway. He didn't want to just leave... but what else was there?

"Uh," Steve said. "I guess I'll just... go?"

Tony was carrying a twisted piece of armor, half-supporting it with his wounded arm; he set it down on the table with a clang. "Okay," Tony said, in that distracted tone that meant his attention was already elsewhere. "See you later."

Steve sighed, and he let himself out.

It was even colder than it had been yesterday, and the chill of the morning air, thin and biting, sliced through Steve; his breath plumed out in front of him in the cold. He hated the cold. He always had, even before the ice. Before Rebirth, he'd never been able to keep enough fat on his bones to make winter into anything other than painful.

What grass there was clung to the slopes, brown and dried. There were patches of snow here and there. Wherever they were, they weren't above the tree line; hardy-looking conifers shaded the cabin. The land ahead of Steve sloped down into a little valley, and then up again into a tree-shrouded ridge. In the distance, there were mountains, high and peaked, rocky and barren—craggy and gray, and then white with more snow. The sky was exquisitely clear.

The landscape had the rugged, austere beauty that Steve associated with the western states; unfortunately, _probably somewhere west of the Mississippi_ wasn't going to be precise enough to enable the Avengers to find them.

Steve took another breath, shocking himself once again with the bitter chill, and then he lifted his head, picked a direction, and started walking.

When he could, he liked to go for a run every day in New York. Even if he hadn't needed to keep himself in fighting shape—he had a more particular workout for that, anyway—he would still have done it, because he enjoyed the feeling of it. Even before the serum, before he'd had the endurance to back it up, he enjoyed being present in his body, pushing himself to his limits. There was a calm, centered place in his head, that he found in the middle of a run or the middle of a fight—or, rarely, the middle of sex—where there was nothing but his body, nothing but breath and strength and sensation. It was the reassuring certainty of knowing that he was here, wherever here was, and that everything was right.

This... wasn't that feeling.

He was having a hard time keeping his mind on what he was doing. He was disappearing into his own mind, but the focus wasn't there. Every so often, the scrape of his boots over rocks would jar him back to reality, a reality that seemed almost unreal, as if someone else were here, in his body, living this. He needed to stay conscious of where he was, of his surroundings. He needed to not think about—

—creeping tentacles in the dark, rising up, Tony's face as the monster dragged him away, Tony's terrified thoughts in Steve's own mind, oh God, Tony stripped bare, Steve coming and coming with Tony watching him—

Steve stopped at the top of a small rise, stumbled, wobbled, and stood there with his arms outstretched until he'd regained his balance.

Push it down, push it back, push it away. He had to think about what he was doing. He had to focus. He was supposed to be figuring out where they were. How to get them out of here. Instead his mind kept drifting back, like all he wanted to do was bleed.

_Breathe. Focus. Look around._

Something shimmered in the distance, another few ridges away. It had the shine of water.

That sounded like a destination to Steve.

With a concrete goal in mind, the rest of the hike was easier; no unwanted thoughts plagued him. For Steve it was an easy hike, of course. There wasn't a trail to follow, but he hardly needed one. Of course, the fact that there wasn't a trail meant that either the area wasn't very well-populated—if not even hikers came here—or that he simply hadn't had the fortune to stumble across a trail yet. The latter had to be the truth. They couldn't be in a truly deserted area. After all, the cabin had water, and electricity, and plumbing. And even if it was well water, a generator, and a septic system—and it probably was—it meant that someone had been here once.

Steve topped the last rise and paused, staring down at the lake below.

The sun was high above him, shining off the ice of the frozen lake. It was, therefore, almost noon—he must have been hiking for two or three hours—and the day wasn't even warm enough that the lake had made a start at melting, though Steve wasn't about to trust it to walk on. The lake looked nice enough; Steve supposed it would be prettier in the spring or summer.

He'd made it this far. There was no sign of human habitation.

It was time to turn back and go back to Tony. He'd probably be another couple of hours getting back, and he didn't know how fast the sun would set here. He shouldn't stay too long. And besides—he wanted to be near Tony.

He wanted to be, but he shouldn't. He had to make sure Tony was okay, but he had to stay away from him.

And, if this preliminary surveying was any indication, they were stuck together.

These morose thoughts kept Steve occupied on the journey back, and he trudged up the hill toward the cabin, spotting the already familiar clearing through the trees.

The cabin wasn't there.

* * *

Steve stared at his surroundings in horror. The clearing was exactly as he remembered it: the rocky outcroppings, the trees, the exact same patches of ice, in the same places. But on the far side there was nothing but trees. There were no footprints carved into the snow. No one was here. No one had ever been here.

He was stranded here, alone in the cold. No one was coming for him. Not again.

Tony was gone.

This couldn't be real.

Maybe he'd freeze out here. It would be 1945, only slower. Maybe this time he wouldn't wake up. The Avengers wouldn't find him this time.

He couldn't think like that. He was letting everything get to him too much. It was all hitting him too hard. He had to think rationally.

The cabin had been here. Therefore, the cabin was still here. And given that magic had been involved in bringing them here, it was very likely that there was still magic involved. The people who had built this cabin wouldn't have wanted it to be found. They would have wanted to hide it. They wouldn't have wanted anyone to be able to happen across it.

This was all an illusion.

So if he stepped forward—

Steve took a deep breath and walked into the clearing.

There was none of the unsubtle feel of magic that he had expected. The air didn't shimmer or ripple. There was no sense that he was crossing a boundary. He certainly hadn't felt one on the way out; if he had, he might have turned around to look and realized the problem then.

But now the cabin was here.

Five feet back, it hadn't been, but it was here now, exactly as Steve had left it.

"Oh, thank God," Steve breathed, and his shaking legs carried him to the door and inside.

Tony was sitting at the table where he'd been when Steve had left, electronics Steve didn't immediately recognize spread out in front of him. Startled, Tony looked up, his head moving a little too slowly to track Steve as Steve staggered in, shut the door, stumbled again, and half-fell onto the couch in relief.

Steve shut his eyes, trying to get his bearings, trying to bring everything inside him down a notch. He'd made it back. He'd found the cabin again. Tony was okay. Sure, they were still trapped, but they were okay. He could relax. They were safe, for now.

He knew he wasn't reacting right. But there was nothing to be done.

"Steve?" Tony asked, and something about the way he said Steve's name was strange, too hoarse. Needy, almost. Like saying his name was some kind of talisman. "You all right?"

He was all right. He had to be all right. He had to hold together for Tony.

"Yeah." Steve cleared his throat. "I just got a bit turned around, is all. I found out that this place is magically shielded. Some kind of illusion spell. You can't see the cabin at all until you get into the clearing."

Already back at work tinkering with the parts on the table, Tony made a vague humming noise of agreement, and Steve supposed that was all of Tony's attention that the remark really warranted. Well, at least this way Tony wasn't going to notice that there was anything wrong with him.

"You should eat," Tony said, and his voice was... tense? Nervous? God, maybe Steve shouldn't have left, if this was how Tony got when he left him. Had Tony been worrying alone this whole time? "I mean, uh. I ate," Tony clarified. "Didn't know when you were going to be back, so I ate without you. There's bread in the pantry if you want a sandwich or something."

At least Tony had eaten something. There was a freshly-washed plate drying in the rack. And sandwiches sounded good, now that Tony had mentioned it.

Tony had clearly been rummaging through the pantry in Steve's absence. Most of the contents weren't in quite the same place, and Tony had built a veritable wall of tomato soup cans near the back of one of the shelves; his organizational tendencies were on display. There was a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter near the front of another shelf, and Steve grabbed them and then went for the jam he'd seen in the refrigerator.

He made a sandwich as fast as he could, wolfed it down standing right there at the counter, and felt a little better for it. He hadn't brought any food with him on his hike—he hadn't been thinking, and damn him, he knew exactly why he hadn't been thinking—and he must have been more off than he'd realized. Maybe that was why he'd been so... emotional.

It would pass. He'd get better. It just took time.

At a more leisurely pace now, he made another sandwich, put the ingredients back, got a glass of water, and took the second half of his meal over to the unoccupied edge of the table where Tony was currently examining his own armor—

Huh.

The thing spread out in front of Tony wasn't the gleaming red and silver of his armor. There were no shaped or molded plates; there was no reflective shine of repulsors. What Tony had, in fact, was some kind of rectangular casing, a dark, metallic box, which he had lifted away and set aside, exposing the circuitry within. One of the bowls from the kitchen cabinet had been commandeered and was holding a small pile of screws. Next to the box, pushed aside to the far end of the table, was a coiled cord, at the end of which lay... a microphone?

Steve stared at the pile of electronics, and then it clicked, all at once.

This was their answer. This was their way out.

"Look what I found in one of the cabinets!" Tony crowed, as bright as could be. "A radio set."

Steve caught his breath, and he stood up and walked over to peer at the pile from just behind Tony's shoulder, hoping that he could make more sense of the way Tony had disassembled it by viewing it from his vantage point.

The fact that the radio was in pieces was not especially encouraging. Did it still work? Could it broadcast a signal? Steve squinted and tried to remember if there had been an antenna on the roof. He didn't think so.

"Okay, so it's currently broken," Tony said, and he tilted his head back to flash that dazzling showman's smile at Steve. "But I can fix it!"

It was good news, all right, but there was something wrong with the way Tony was saying it, a brittle facade of cheeriness covering... Steve didn't know what. Tony was trying too hard. He was happy about the radio—he had to be—but he wasn't _this_ happy. Something here was false.

Tony's left arm was still in a sling, of course; he was holding a screwdriver in his right hand. And his hand was _shaking_. There was a definite, undeniable tremor. This wasn't manic energy, those engineering binges Tony sometimes indulged in. This was something else, and Steve had no idea what it was, but he didn't think it was good.

Steve wanted to hold Tony's hand, do _something_ to calm him—but he couldn't bring himself to touch him.

"It's a power supply issue," Tony said, rattling on, gesturing with a grand swing of the screwdriver. "Not sure what to do about that yet. It's not as simple as rewiring a plug, otherwise I would have done that and we'd be missing a few lamps, right?" His laugh was nervous. "But I can fix this. I've got this."

He was talking too fast.

"There's an antenna too, in storage," Tony added. "Nice big one. I can't check it without getting this thing working, obviously, but it seemed fine to me— oop!"

The screwdriver slipped out of his shaking hand, and Steve picked it up and handed it back to him. Their fingers brushed.

Steve had to ask. He had to say something.

"Tony, are you all right?"

"Fine," Tony said, and his smile looked like a lie yet again. "Fine. Of course I'm fine." He held the smile for a beat longer, and then turned back to his work.

Well, what else had he expected? And besides, Steve knew exactly what was wrong with Tony.

Steve realized he was reaching out, about to set a hand on Tony's shoulder, and hastily he jerked it away.

Tony didn't even notice.

* * *

After another few minutes, Tony waved him away—or rather, shoved his left elbow, still in a sling, in Steve's direction, which Steve figured counted. Even as Steve stepped back, Tony was still fumbling with the screwdriver in his right hand, and his brow was furrowed in concentration.

"Do you need help?"

Tony shook his head. "I'm good," he said, and then he swore as he bumped the bowl of screws and knocked it onto the floor.

"Let me get those for you," Steve said.

As he knelt, he collided with Tony, who had already been moving, and he watched in dismay as Tony fell. Hitting the floor heavily, Tony rolled back and onto his left side, tangled in his robe, and then he wasn't able to get up again, not right away. He was clearly trying to push himself back up with his dominant hand as a reflex, and Steve watched him pale and grit his teeth as he couldn't quite make it. The sling was wrapped around his arm.

"I'm sorry," Steve said, hastily reaching out to help him up.

Tony twisted away from him. "No!" he said, and the word was another snarl. "I don't need anything."

As if to spite him, Tony shoved himself upright and then began laboriously picking up the screws, one at a time, where they had spilled and rolled all over the floor. His face was flushed, a bright angry band of color splashing across his cheekbones.

Okay. Tony didn't want his help. He had to accept that.

Steve stood up and watched as Tony finished gathering the screws, set the bowl back on the table, and then clambered back into his seat, bracing himself on the chair. The cowl of his robe hung low as he bent over to resettle himself, and Steve couldn't help but stare at the dark bruises all the way down Tony's torso, the trail down and down.

Oh, God. He needed to stop. There was something wrong with him. He absolutely needed to stop thinking about this.

"I told you already," Tony said, decidedly not looking up. "I know what I'm doing. I don't need any help. For God's sake, it's a radio. I could have built this when I was six. I _did_ build this when I was six. You don't need to treat me like— like I'm some kind of—"

His mouth twisted, and he didn't fill in the word.

"I'm sorry," Steve said again, because he couldn't apologize for what he actually needed to apologize for.

_I'm sorry I was never there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry for bringing you here. I'm sorry for letting that monster touch you. I'm sorry I'm so screwed up inside._

But he just couldn't stop talking. "It's just that, I know you're not right-handed, and you seem—"

"I'll be fine," Tony snapped, and then he sighed. "I promise I'll let you know if I need help, okay?"

Steve supposed that was as close to fine as they were getting.

Tony's hand was shaking again.

Whatever it was, it wasn't Steve's problem. Tony had said so. He had to respect that. _It wasn't like anything else had_ , he thought, and he shut his eyes against the wave of regret.

Steve moved to the couch, to give Tony some room to work.

"I didn't find anything on the hike, by the way," he added. "A frozen lake. No sign of people. And I don't think anyone is going to find us, what with the illusion covering this place, unless they get really lucky."

And this was clearly not their lucky week.

Tony hummed again. "It's all right, Cap. I got this. I'll get us out of here."

They just had to keep it together long enough for Tony to fix the radio, for the two of them to get rescued. They could do that.

* * *

_Hurry_ _up and wait._

As a soldier, he'd never been particularly good at that aspect of the service. Even before becoming one, he'd been restless, always wanting to go somewhere, do something, get out of the cramped tenement apartment. Bedrest had been its own kind of hell. But one of the things he loved about being an Avenger was that it got him out and on his feet, every day, seeing the world. There was always something to do, somewhere to go, and even when he had been team chairperson there had been nowhere near as much paperwork as the Army.

And now he was stuck in a cabin in the wilderness with Tony, and there were about eighteen different things neither of them could talk about— _you could fuck me_ , Tony had said, smiling, and Steve shook his head to clear it—and there was nothing to do.

He'd run through all the stretches he knew. He'd done crunches on the floor. He'd taken a shower. He'd stared longingly out the window, but the sun was starting to go down, and Steve wasn't about to take another hike through uncharted territory at night. That was a definite no.

He'd gone through the cabinet where Tony had found the radio; other than the antenna, there wasn't anything useful—or even entertaining—in there.

There wasn't even a book to read.

It was just an afternoon alone with his thoughts, which he didn't exactly welcome, today.

And he couldn't even talk to Tony.

Tony was still tinkering away at the radio on the table. Every so often there was a scraping noise and another muttered obscenity.

"Hey," Steve called out, and Tony looked up. "Want to break for food?"

Tony blinked at him a few times like he had forgotten how to understand language over the course of the day. "Uh. Sure." He summoned up a smile, and it looked like it had cost him something. "I'll cook, if you want?"

It sounded like a peace offering.

So Steve smiled back. "Sounds good."

Tony made pasta, and though he complained bitterly about the jarred tomato sauce in the pantry being a disgrace to humanity, Steve thought the result was very nice, and he told Tony so.

"My ancestors would weep," Tony said, and he chuckled.

This was good, Steve told himself. This was normal, wasn't it? They were getting back to normal. They used to be able to joke. To banter. They could do it again.

Steve grinned. "You just didn't want to wash everything up afterwards. That's why we're making your ancestors cry. We could have made mine proud. There's a sack of potatoes in there."

"Can you blame me?" Tony lifted his arm, still in a sling. "It's a little tricky to get everything clean with one good arm."

And then nothing was funny again, because all Steve could think about was yesterday, what had happened, and hell, it was Steve's fault Tony had twisted his shoulder in the first place, wasn't it? And it hadn't even done him any good, because the monster had still—

Yeah. Steve shuddered. Not thinking about that.

Tony was watching him from the other end of the table, and Steve imagined he could see Tony's face fall, just a little.

Steve couldn't think of anything to say.

When they were done eating, he washed the dishes while Tony showered. Alerted by the thudding noises behind him, he turned around to see that Tony had successfully unfolded the couch—and he'd even managed to put his arm back in the sling. The other sleeve of his robe was pushed up; it looked like he'd redone the dressings on his wounds without help.

See, Tony could take care of himself. Tony was doing okay. Tony was moving on. Steve just needed to stop dwelling on it. He wasn't even the one who'd suffered here.

He got ready for bed, and then grabbed his blanket pile, preparing to spread it out on the floor. Tony sat on the edge of the couch bed... and then tapped the mattress next to him.

"Hey." Tony's voice was a soft, coaxing drawl. "You wanna join me tonight? It's way more comfortable than the floor."

Something in Steve stuttered and stopped.

"Come on." Tony was pleading now. "Come on, Steve, what do you think's gonna happen?"

"I—" Steve stammered. He couldn't say _I need to stay away from you_. "I just think, maybe you'd be more comfortable if I didn't—"

"I'd be more _comfortable_ ," Tony said, and the word had an acidic ring to it, "if I knew you were sleeping on this perfectly good bed."

It would make Tony happy. This was what Tony wanted. Nothing bad had happened last night. It was going to be okay.

Warily, Steve sat at the edge of the bed, pried his boots off, peeled his cowl back, pulled his gloves off, and lay down. The bed creaked.

"There," Tony said, and he got up, turned out the main light, and then flopped down next to him. The bed creaked again. "I suppose you're going to tell me that you're more _comfortable_ sleeping in your uniform, too," he said, as though it were just an observation.

"I'm fine," Steve said, stiffly.

Tony sighed. "You can't tell me this is normal for you."

And that just— something that had been pent-up within Steve snapped. What the hell was Tony trying to accomplish? Did he win some prize if he made Steve admit it wasn't okay?

"Since you asked," Steve said, and his voice went hard and he hated himself for it, "I usually sleep in my damn _underwear_ , but I thought we'd all feel better if—"

Terrified and frustrated, he shut his mouth. He couldn't exactly tell Tony why he was uncomfortable with that.

"You can't even say it," Tony said, and there was something in the way he said it that might have been disgust. In the shadows, he just looked tired. "You can't even fucking say it, can you? For God's sake, Steve, it's not a big deal. There was a tentacle in my ass. So what? You think I'm going to confuse my buddy, Captain America, the guy sleeping in this bed, with the tentacle that was in my ass yesterday? You think your body is going to make me freak out? What the hell do you think I think of you, huh?"

He knew exactly what Tony thought. _I feel safe_ , Tony had said.

He shouldn't.

"Tony," he said, and his voice was shaking. "It— it _raped_ you. No one is expecting you to feel fine."

They couldn't talk about this.

"I'm fine," Tony said. His eyes glittered in the darkness. "I'm _fine_." He sighed. "Things happen to my body all the time that I don't particularly like. That's life. I had shrapnel embedded in my chest for a good few years there. My heart has given out on me more times than I can count. I didn't want to tell anyone on the team anything about myself because I knew— _I knew_ —I was going to die, and there was no point getting close to anyone. This? This was ten goddamn minutes of mild discomfort. This was nothing."

"It's not _nothing_ ," Steve said. "I could feel you in my head. You were crying. You were in pain—"

Tony snorted. "Yeah, and now I'm not."

"I saw what it did to you."

Tony wasn't okay. He knew Tony wasn't okay. He'd been so out of sorts, especially since Steve had come back from that hike today. Something was wrong. Why was Tony trying to act like everything was fine?

"And you think, what, I'm ruined?" Tony laughed again. "That was by no means the first time anything has been up my ass. I happen to like it."

Steve wondered why Tony was being deliberately crude. He shivered, a terribly pleasant feeling that prickled straight down his spine and prickled into—oh God, no—arousal. He really hoped Tony didn't notice.

"Tony—"

"So as you can see, everything is fine. Go to _sleep_ , Steve."

Tony turned over and said nothing further. After a few moments, his breathing deepened into sleep.

Steve stared up at the ceiling and tried not to think about anything in relation to Tony's ass. He was not particularly successful.

Eventually, he slept.

* * *

The dream was soft, pleasant. Everything was hazy and warm. Desire washed over Steve, like waves lapping against a lakeshore. There was nothing but this.

Tony lay in front of Steve, on this bed, in this cabin. Tony was face-down in the sheets. The morning sunlight shone over his body, illuminating his golden skin, the dip of his muscular back, the curve of his ass. He was naked, gloriously naked. He was looking back over his shoulder and smiling, a come-hither look, pure and uncomplicated.

Tentacles, slick and dark green, curled up from under the mattress. They were pinning Tony to the bed, holding him securely by his wrists and ankles. Tony didn't seem to mind; he was smiling, not fighting back. Steve liked the look of it, the way the tentacles slid around the narrow bones of Tony's wrists and ankles, the way he was held, the way it made everything in Tony seem to soften and relax.

One glistening tentacle rose up, shimmering in the sunlight, and then dropped down and slid inside Tony's ass, pushing forward until several inches of it had disappeared.

Tony moaned, a low, broken noise of pleasure, and hitched his hips up, trying to force more of the tentacle inside himself. From this angle, Steve could see everything, everything he hadn't been able to see in reality, obscene and beautiful, filthy in the best of ways. Tony's ass was slick, stretched wide around the tip of the tentacle, and Steve could watch the tentacle fuck him, sliding in and out and in again. He watched Tony's ass ripple and flex and tighten. The thought came to Steve slow and dazed: if he fucked Tony, Tony would take his cock just like this, like the only thing in the entire world that he wanted was Steve's cock.

Steve couldn't say how long it went on; in dreams, everything was timeless. He watched Tony's neglected cock harden, dangling between his legs. Tony's balls drew up tight, and Steve felt the echoing lust within himself. Tony was close, whimpering, dripping on the sheets, and no one had even touched his cock. He was gorgeous, open, exposed, everything on display, exactly the way Steve wanted it.

Tony's eyes had fallen shut and he was smiling, an astonishingly beautiful smile. Steve was sure now that there was nothing in Tony but pleasure, and he loved it.

The tentacle withdrew; Tony made a sad, bereft noise, and Steve frowned, disappointed. He wanted Tony to come. He definitely wanted to watch that, properly, without a tentacle blocking his view, as it had in reality.

But the tentacle didn't entirely leave; in fact, another one joined it. The two tentacles gently parted the cleft of Tony's ass with a wet sucking sound, holding him open to Steve's greedy gaze. He looked _used_. Slick wetness was smeared all over his hole, dripping down to his balls. 

He was perfect.

Tony whimpered again, a needy noise that went straight to Steve's cock.

_See, Captain_ , the tentacle monster said in his mind. _I have made him ready for you. Here he is, open and waiting and begging for you. I shall hold him open for you. I shall hold him down for you. He wants you to take him. He is yours._

Steve could feel himself smiling.

"Please, Steve," Tony whispered. "Use me."


	3. Day Three

Steve awoke in darkness. He was sweating, achingly hard, and terrified out of his mind.

The only light in the room was the barest sliver of moonlight through the window above the couch; in the dimness, he could make out Tony next to him. Inches away from him. Tony was lying on his side, face pressed against the pillow, turned toward Steve. He must have been dreaming too; his eyelashes were fluttering. He was sound asleep.

It had been a dream. Oh, God. It had felt so real. But it had only been a dream. It hadn't really happened. He hadn't touched Tony. He hadn't watched the tentacles hold Tony down, not like that—

—God, he wished it had been like that—

No. He didn't. He couldn't think that. It was a dream, an awful nightmare, and he couldn't want that.

He wanted it.

In his sleep, Tony pulled the blanket more tightly around himself, and in a moment of unreasoning horror, Steve thought _what if_. It was the same kind of _what if_ he might have felt at the top of a cliff, knowing he couldn't jump, knowing it would be suicide, but finding the fall all too easy to picture. What if?

What if Tony woke up right now and saw him like this? What would Tony think if he knew what Steve dreamed about doing to him?

Steve's cock throbbed, and he was suddenly, painfully aware that his body was offering up an answer to that one. Where the hell was this _coming_ from? He knew he had a thing for Tony, sure; of course he had a thing for Tony. But tentacles? Could _anyone_ have a thing for tentacles? His experiences with pornography, brief and generally unsatisfying, had been a few lurid photographs, before the ice—and after it, one furtive trip to a Times Square theater, where he'd left halfway through the action. It had all been so fake, and the women in the film hadn't even looked like they were having a good time, and that had ruined it for him. He'd felt exploitative and lousy, witnessing the seedy, seamy side of this glorious future.

Maybe he just hadn't been looking for the right things. Because this seemed to be what did it for him. Tentacles. Specifically, Tony and tentacles.

Steve felt his face heat up. As if on cue, his cock twitched, leaking pre-come, dampening his underwear. He couldn't think. He was going to go off if anything so much as brushed up against him.

He had to get out of here. God, what if he came right here, and Tony knew, just like he'd watched him the other day?

If he thought about that one second longer, he was going to come. No help required.

As quietly as he could, he levered himself upright, crept across the floor, and shut himself in the bathroom. That would muffle the sound of—

—of something he absolutely, definitely wasn't going to do.

Oh, God, he was going to _die_.

He had to. He couldn't take this any longer.

Steve groaned in relief as he undid the fly of his uniform. He pulled his cock out, hard in his palm and, yeah, he wasn't going to last long at all.

Tony wasn't going to know. This was just... some perverse need Steve's body had, and if he took care of it, it would go away.

It had to go away. This was going to stop. Somehow.

He let his hand curl around the shaft of his cock, and he wasn't going to think about Tony, he wasn't going to picture the soft slide of tentacles over Tony's body as Tony waited for him, as Tony watched him.

_You like this_ , Tony said in his mind, with perfect, absolute certainty, and Steve gasped and squeezed his cock tighter.

In the dark, there was a ghostly hint of Steve's own reflection in the mirror, a suggestion of movement, his own weaknesses displayed and doubled, and he knew how this looked, he knew how awful this looked—Captain America, slouching against a bathroom wall, watching himself in the dark as he thought about one of his best friends held down by tentacles.

If the dream hadn't ended, what would he have done?

He knew that. He'd have slid into Tony's body, hot and tight and ready for him, held into the exact right position. Steve sagged against the wall, fucking his own fist with pathetic little jerks of his hips, not looking at his own hand, imagining Tony there instead, Tony smiling at him, Tony encouraging him.

_You could fuck me_ , Tony had said, Tony had offered, and he'd probably been too high to even know what he was saying, and Jesus, Steve shouldn't think about this, this was screwed up, he shouldn't touch himself and think about this—

_Please_ , Tony said, the Tony in Steve's imagination, the Tony who wanted everything for real, and Steve's thrusts went ragged, he bit his lip hard enough to bruise, and then he came all over his own hand as everything in his mind was the slick obscene slide of flesh, Tony again held open for him.

He stood there gasping, trying to get his breath back, pushing his hearing out far enough to see if Tony had noticed.

Tony was still asleep.

Steve washed his hands and went back to bed. He couldn't let Tony know anything had happened.

Maybe he could give up the shield after they got out of here.

* * *

When Steve awoke again, it was morning.

For a few frightening seconds, his earlier dream tangled with his memories. He couldn't quite tell what was real, but he knew as soon as he opened his eyes that the bed was empty, and he flung his arms out, patting the bed where Tony wasn't, because some unreasoning, instinctual part of his brain knew that Tony was supposed to be there.

Then he woke up a little more and wondered if he was remembering Bernie.

Then he woke up all the way, registered that Tony was sitting across the room at the kitchen table, and remembered that in the middle of the night he'd decided to jerk off (again) while picturing Tony and tentacles (again) and he opened and closed his mouth. His secret weighed heavily on him, a terrible brand. It felt like Tony must know, looking at him.

Tony wasn't even looking at him.

Tony had a bowl of oatmeal, and he was eating awkwardly, hunched over the table, spoon clutched in his right hand.

Steve wondered why Tony making breakfast hadn't woken him up. He normally didn't sleep that soundly—but nothing about this was normal, was it?

Steve wondered why Tony hadn't even woken him up for breakfast.

"There's oatmeal in the pot if you want it." Tony's voice was tense, terse. "If you don't want it, you're on your own."

_Don't be like this_ , Steve wanted to say. _Talk to me. I know you're hurting._ But, well, Steve didn't exactly want to inflict the inside of his own head on Tony in return.

"Oatmeal's fine, thanks."

Steve was standing in the kitchen eating oatmeal straight out of the pot—why bother with dishes, he thought. The sentiment was angry, unworthy of him, but he couldn't help but give in.

That had been true of a lot of things, recently.

Tony dropped his bowl in the sink without even bothering to wash it; he headed back to the table and started to work on the radio again. Like he just expected Steve to clean up after him.

They'd never had any problem being roommates before; Steve would have said, in fact, that Tony was one of the most considerate of the Avengers. But now half the things Tony did were irritating him, fueling a hot and irrational anger, like an itch just under his skin.

Steve breathed in. He counted to ten. He let the breath out. It didn't help.

Okay. Tony had cooked. It was Steve's turn to clean. That was fair.

When he'd finished scrubbing the pot out, he turned to see that Tony had the radio in pieces yet again. He had a screwdriver wedged in his mouth, like that was the only convenient thing he could grip with, and he was nudging something within the guts of the radio awkwardly, bracing the radio with his injured arm in an inelegant maneuver. Whatever he was doing, it was clearly something he usually needed both hands for.

"Can I help?" Steve offered.

He'd asked Tony that yesterday. Tony obviously still remembered.

"No," Tony said, sourly, and he stabbed at the radio with a vicious motion. "I'm not helpless. I can take care of it myself."

"I'm not saying you're helpless," Steve said, and in his mind a tentacle coiled around Tony's wrist. In his mind Tony had been helpless and he'd loved it. Steve swallowed hard. "I'm just saying—"

"I'm _fine_ ," Tony snarled, turning back to his work, and then there was an ominous crunching noise from the radio. "Shit."

"Tony?"

Tony didn't answer him.

"Tony?" he asked, louder.

"I can fix it," Tony said, too fast, in a high, thready, panicked voice that was like nothing Steve had ever heard from him. "I can fix it, I can, please, don't, I'm sorry, please, I promise, I can fix it." And then he blinked and his gaze focused on Steve. "Oh."

"Are you all right?"

It was obvious that Tony wasn't, of course; something was very wrong. It was like he'd forgotten who Steve was. Like he'd forgotten where he was, for an instant, even. Steve knew Tony had been captured before. Had he been forced to work?

Flashbacks were... really not a good sign.

"Perfectly fine," Tony said, but his face was too pale and he didn't quite look like his mind was entirely present. "Don't worry about me. There's nothing to worry about. I'll have it fixed."

"It's not the radio I'm worried about," Steve told him.

Something in Tony's face went cold and hard. His eyes were wide, almost frightened.

"Okay, so you care," he said. His lip curled. "I'm touched. But there's nothing you can do, unless you can fix a goddamn radio, is there?"

So he wasn't a genius. That didn't mean Tony had to rub it in.

"All right," Steve said, the words tight in his throat. "Fine. You want me to go? I'm gone. Taking a walk. Be back later."

Tony didn't even say a word as he walked out the door.

* * *

Steve didn't even look back until he'd passed the boundary of the magical illusion surrounding the cabin, so that by the time he did look back there wasn't really anything to look at. There was just another empty clearing, identical to a thousand featureless patches he'd walked past yesterday.

He didn't know where he was heading, but it wasn't here, and that was good enough for him. It was a different direction than he'd picked yesterday. He wasn't really outfitted for a hike today either—it wasn't like he'd remembered food or water—but the serum would save him from his lapses. Eventually he'd be calm, and he could turn around and head back.

It wasn't one of Steve's more sterling personal qualities, but he'd never claimed to be perfect, and this mission was showing it, more than most. Maybe more than any of them.

He still couldn't shake the dream. In his mind, a tentacle twined around Tony's wrist, elegant, perfect, like it was always meant to be there, leaving sucker marks in its wake. Steve shivered for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold, shook his head, topped the next ridge, and kept walking.

It was going to take a lot of walking to get his head on straight this time.

The landscape was the same as it had been in the other direction—the windswept rocky scenery, dotted with determined trees, still coated with patches of ice and snow. In summer, perhaps, it would be scenic, but here at the end of winter it was breathtaking, for an entirely different reason. It was practically barren, harsh in a way that Steve suspected would quickly wear down a baseline human.

With the wind biting at him at the top of the next ridge, Steve was willing to concede that he'd cooled off—literally—enough to start being able to think through their options. He had to focus on this, on getting them out. Not on his dream from last night. Not on the events of the other day. He had one goal. He had to hold together long enough to accomplish it. Tony was depending on him, even if Tony wasn't going to admit he needed any goddamn help, and look where that had gotten them. The thought made him hiss aloud, a sigh of dismay into the wind. Okay, so he clearly still had some unresolved anger about this.

He couldn't be angry at Tony. He shouldn't be angry at Tony. Tony was the one who was suffering. Tony was the one who had been—

No. He wasn't thinking about it.

They had to work with the present, with what they had. The radio was even more broken now than it had been before, and Steve... wasn't entirely sure if he trusted Tony's assessment of whether he could fix it. Tony was getting worse. He'd mistaken Steve for someone else entirely, for a few seconds there. Thinking about the terror in Tony's eyes was too awful to contemplate. Was he having flashbacks?

Steve wasn't cut out for this.

But he was all Tony had.

And he hadn't been able to help Tony when Tony was drinking, so what in God's name did he think he could do for him now? Be there for him?

_Yeah, Rogers, you're doing a real good job of that._

Lost in his thoughts, it was a surprise to find that he'd happened upon another lake. This one was just as rocky as the first, but with a little island in the middle. The far side was more ice and snow, of course—

And a trail.

Steve's breath caught. There was a trail there. It disappeared into the snow in most places, but now that he knew what he was looking for it was there, like a ghost, a faint line cutting up and over the ridge. A sign of life.

Of course, there wasn't any life to be seen right now, and Steve suspected that even if there were usually hikers this wasn't the season for them. There was no way to tell from here how long the journey was back to civilization, but it was possible.

He could set out tomorrow. He wasn't prepared now, but back at the cabin he could stock up on supplies. It would be rough, especially if the trek ended up being overnight. He wasn't looking forward to sleeping in the cold. But he could do this. He'd been built for this. What was the serum for, if not this?

And then he could get help, and he could come back and get Tony.

Smiling, his mood dramatically improved, he turned around and started the hike back to the cabin. Tony was going to be so happy to hear this.

* * *

He couldn't say, looking at the table, whether Tony had made any more progress on the radio since he'd left. It all looked pretty much the same to him. But Tony's face was more drawn, his lips thinner, all his attention absorbed by the radio, and Steve guessed that wasn't a good sign.

But it was going to be okay. There was a trail. There was a way out of here.

"Did you have a good hike?" Tony's question was curt.

"You could say that." Steve let himself smile. "I happened upon a trail. I didn't follow it, but I think tomorrow I can go out with more provisions, try to figure out where we are, maybe get some help."

Tony frowned and pushed the radio away. "All right." He raised an eyebrow. "I only found one sleeping bag when I went through the cabin yesterday, though."

Why was that a problem? At least there was a sleeping bag at all. That was more than he'd hoped for. Steve shrugged. "Fine by me. I only need the one."

"Uh," Tony said. It was a polite sound of feigned incomprehension, a heads-up, the kind of sound someone makes when they think you've said something hideously wrong and want to give you the chance to correct yourself as gracefully as possible. "There are two of us."

Steve stared. "Tony, you're not in any condition to hike out of here."

And then Tony pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself on the table with his good arm, which Steve would have thought should have made his point for him, really. But Tony didn't take the hint.

"Excuse me?" Tony didn't raise his voice, but the anger was audible; his face, though, was perfectly still.

Did Tony really need Steve to spell it out for him? Apparently so. "If you had the suit," he conceded, "sure, maybe." He gestured at Tony's arm, even as Tony's face flushed in irritation. "But you can't use your arm. You don't have gear. You don't have weather-appropriate clothes. You don't even have _shoes_."

"I can still wear the boots," Tony snapped. "They're just nonfunctional."

That hardly covered the rest of the gear. Tony had to be aware of that. And he had to know what his current condition was.

He met Tony's eyes. "You're not at your best, and you know it."

"Jesus, Steve," Tony said, and his voice was raised now, "it was just sex, it's fine, I'm fine, I'm better, I'm not made of glass—"

"That's not what I meant," Steve snapped back, hotly, louder than Tony, and somehow he was still talking, rushing on, the verbal equivalent of a battering ram, and half of him was horrified that Tony still couldn't acknowledge what had happened to him. But it wasn't about that. "You're underweight, you're not in top form, and frankly, you look like it. You can't survive out there. Not like you are now." He hated to say it, but it was true. "Four months ago you were a wreck. I found you in a flophouse. You weren't taking care of yourself then, and I know you got worse before you got better. I don't even know when you were in the hospital, but if I'd been your team leader I'd never have cleared you for the field!"

Tony's face was alarmingly pale, but he wasn't giving an inch. He stepped close, into Steve's personal space. His nostrils flared. "Then I guess it's a good thing you're not my goddamn team leader anymore, isn't it?" he snarled.

"Tony—"

"If that wasn't what you _meant_ ," Tony said, the word a cutting, mocking echo, "then you should have scratched me from the mission as soon as you saw me touch down back in Ohio. You knew this was what you were working with!" He gestured at himself, his hand shaking. "You think you need to remind me that I've fucked up my entire life? That I've lost my money, my company, my teammates, my friends? You think I've somehow forgotten?" He smiled, and it was a sharp, nasty smile. "You have no idea what I've been through. I made it through last year. I can survive a walk in the woods. You're not leaving me. You're not going anywhere without me."

Steve held up his hands. "It's not like that. I wouldn't abandon you. I'd come back for you. I'd get help—"

"I don't need help—"

"Tony, you're _not okay_."

"Maybe not." Tony's smile now was fatalistic, and his words were quiet. "But you know what? I'm not the only one. And you know it." He met Steve's eyes. "Whether you like it or not, we're a team. And we don't leave each other behind. You found a trail, sure, but you have no idea where we are, where the nearest populated area is, and it's rough weather even for you. We have supplies. No one's dying. So I fix the radio and we wait, and if we don't hear from anyone, we wait until the weather's better, and we go. Both of us."

Tony's gaze was determined, deadly serious.

God, what if Tony knew? What if Tony knew what was wrong with Steve? And they had to stay here, trapped together, as Steve sank further and further into depravity? No. They had to get out of here.

"You better be able to fix that radio," Steve said, but even he knew it sounded weak.

Tony snorted. "It's just a radio. I'm still a genius."

* * *

Steve cooked. He cleaned. He ran through every exercise he could think of. He cooked again. At least, when they ran out of perishables, they would have beans to last them for weeks and weeks. He knew he ought to make an accounting of the food, a meal plan, figure out exactly how long they could survive on what they had, but something within him resisted. He wanted Tony's plan to work; he wanted the radio to be fixed. He wanted them to be able to call for help. Surely he could wait just a little bit longer.

When Steve had finished washing and drying the dishes, Tony looked up at him, blinking. He'd gotten the radio out again as soon as the table had been cleared, but he hadn't made a lot of progress yet.

"Hey," Tony said, and it was the first word he'd spoken in hours. "Do you think you could help me out a sec?"

The question was quiet, tentative, and Steve understood that this was another peace offering.

Steve smiled. "Sure. What do you need?"

Tony jerked his head in the direction of the main armor pile. "I'm going to need the suit's main battery. It's in the chestplate, behind the main unibeam housing. You can just bring the whole chestplate if you want. That would be easier."

There wasn't any reason Tony couldn't have gotten it himself, Steve thought, so he must have asked because he wanted Steve to feel included.

Steve got up and fished through the armor pile until he found the chestplate. It looked to be in decent shape to him, although admittedly he wasn't the engineer here. He brought it back and set it on the table. It clattered and rang. Tony glanced over it, his gaze critical.

"So," Steve ventured, hoping he wasn't presuming too much to ask what was going on, "want to fill me in on the plan?"

Tony's mouth twitched. Half a smile, but Steve would take it. "It's pretty simple. It might not work, and it'll probably take me at least a day, which is why I didn't try it first, but we're running out of other options. Basically, I'm going to wire the suit battery up to the radio. The difficulty, of course, is that the radio is definitely not rated for the kind of power the suit runs on. And I'd prefer not to turn the radio into a fireball if I can help it." He gestured, starting to lose himself in the explanation, the way he always used to, and Steve rejoiced to see it. "Luckily, there are step-down transformers in the boots and gauntlets, and I can wire one of those in. Unluckily, those are the parts of the suit that took the worst hits, the other day, so the way it works is that I've got four chances to find a part that still functions. Assuming the battery still works, of course."

Steve nodded. "Sounds good. How can I help?"

Tony raised his eyebrows and gestured toward a tiny screwdriver on the table. "If you want, you can help by getting the battery out. You, uh. You kind of need one hand to brace the chestplate while you get the screws out with your other hand, so it would be great if—"

"Yeah," Steve said, quickly, because he didn't want to make Tony have to beg for his help. "Yeah, of course, no problem."

He set to work. It was finicky, but mindless enough that he could find a certain kind of focus in it, a satisfaction in prying out each individual screw and setting it aside. Next to him, Tony was still working quietly on the radio.

Tony gave the chestplate a sidelong glance as Steve freed another screw. "I am so glad I don't have to wear that thing anymore," he murmured.

"Oh?"

There was the slightest of motions as Tony nodded. "Two years. Two whole years from that landmine until I finally got the synthetic heart." He tapped his sternum with the butt of his screwdriver. "You know what the worst part was? Go on, guess."

"Hmm." Steve tilted the chestplate, lifting one side up, considering the weight of it. "It was heavy?"

He'd never really gotten the chance to talk to Tony about what it was like, being Iron Man. He'd only found out a few months before... before everything... and they'd always been so busy on the team that it had been hard to make time for anything. They certainly hadn't had hours and hours alone together. Not since he'd found out who Iron Man was, anyway.

Tony's laugh was soft. "It was—oh, God, it was, but that wasn't the worst of it. That one there's not really a good point of comparison. This model in particular is significantly heavier than most of the others. The loadout on this one has a lot of newer tech; I just threw everything I could think of in the design, so it ended up weighing a lot. The armors I built when I knew I'd have to wear the chestplate twenty-four seven were much lighter, actually." He coughed. "No, it's, uh. This is going to sound ridiculous. But it was... the touching."

"The touching?"

Tony was silent for so long that Steve looked up, concerned; Tony had stopped working and was looking off into the distance.

"The lack of it, I mean." Tony made a face like he was trying to smile and wasn't getting anywhere. "If anyone so much as put their hand on my shoulder, they'd feel the chestplate. And then they'd know I was Iron Man. So no touching. No hugs. No nothing. It was... miserable, honestly."

God, that must have been hell. That couldn't be right, could it? Surely Steve had touched Tony sometime.

"I must have touched you, right?" Steve frowned. "I mean, I taught you hand-to-hand. I remember that." That had been—geez, that had been the first time Tony had confronted his drinking problem.

"Only after I'd ditched the chestplate," Tony said. "Trust me, you didn't touch me before. No one did."

"No?" He remembered it, though—friendly touches, a pat on the shoulder after a mission well-done. "Oh. That was always Iron Man."

"Mmm-hmm," Tony said. "No rules about touching Iron Man. I mean, I couldn't feel it, but it was a nice gesture."

"Well," Steve said, a little awkwardly. "You're welcome."

He knew what he ought to do now, what the conversation had naturally brought them to—another reassuring touch. Another pat on the shoulder, letting Tony know that it was okay.

He couldn't bring himself to do it.

His mind called up scenario after scenario, endless versions of the dreams that had tormented him. He'd put a hand on Tony's shoulder, hold him down. Pin his wrists. Use his strength to make Tony do whatever he wanted. In his mind, Tony liked it. In his mind, Tony begged for it, the way he had in his dream, the way he had when the monster made him like it, and Steve felt sick.

Steve's gaze fixed on the ring of bruises at Tony's throat, the way they traveled down, the way they were lightening already, some of them, into a smeary green-gold. If the tentacle monster came back, would it bruise him more?

Steve swallowed hard.

Tony looked away, and the moment was broken.

"So, uh," Tony said, and there was tension in his voice once again. "I guess we should work on this tomorrow. Bedtime now?"

"Sure," Steve agreed, grateful for the reprieve.

He was sharing the bed with Tony, again, of course, because he couldn't exactly explain why he didn't want to.

Tony gave him a dubious once-over as Steve again climbed into bed with most of his uniform on.

"I'd offer you five bucks to take your shirt off," Tony said, his grin gone crooked in the darkness, "but I think you might take that the wrong way, and also I think you currently have a lot more money than I do."

Steve's heart pounded. He wanted to tell Tony yes, but he— he had to stay away from him. Tony didn't deserve anything that was in Steve's head. Tony would never think of him the same way again if he knew. He had to say no.

"You're probably right about that," he said, as mildly as he could. He'd gotten all that back pay, after all, and he'd set up the hotline, and Tony had... well, nothing. Steve was pretty sure he was still in the middle of all the legal wrangling, turning Stane International back into Stark International.

There was a long silence.

"Fair enough," Tony said, roughly, like his pride was somehow wounded, and he turned over. "Good night, then."

Oh. Tony had thought he meant his answer to apply to the first part of his offer. Tony thought it was unwelcome, that Steve would be offended, that maybe Steve was straight, that he might even feel... threatened. All of which was entirely wrong.

But Steve couldn't say yes, either.

He lay awake for a long time.

* * *

This dream felt far more urgent than the last. For most people, it would have been something out of ridiculous B-grade horror; for Steve, it just looked like half a dozen missions. He was on the sidewalk, and there was a familiar green tentacle emerging from an alley, wrapped around the corner of a building.

"Help me!" Tony cried out.

Steve ran, turned the corner, and found Tony pinned to the side of a building in the tiny alleyway. His armor—his old armor, red and gold—was scattered around him in pieces, and more tentacles held him spread-eagled to the brickwork.

And, of course, Tony was naked. And hard.

"Help me," Tony repeated. It wasn't a shout of distress this time. It was a low, sultry whisper. Tony licked his lips. "Only you can help me."

Tony's eyes had gone dark. His skin was sweat-dampened, flushed, and he strained against the tentacles, arching up, golden muscle rippling. He was gorgeous.

Another tentacle—Steve wasn't sure where they were coming from, but it was a dream, so it didn't much matter—was caressing Tony's chest, the slick tip of the tentacle toying with one of his nipples. Tony moaned and whimpered, and then the whole tentacle pulled away from his chest with an obscene sucking sound, leaving a double line of bruises.

One of the tentacles around Tony's legs began to slide up Tony's inner thigh, and Tony sobbed and squirmed in the unyielding grasp of the monster, plainly trying to get it to move higher. His cock was huge, flushed, and he was clearly aching for relief as he rocked his hips, but there was only air.

"Please, Steve," Tony whispered, breathy and desperate. "Please touch me, Steve, please. I need you to touch me."

He reached out and set his palm to Tony's sternum, admiring how his own fingerprints fit in the bruises left by the tentacle's suckers, and Tony whimpered again. Here in the dream, Tony's skin was unscarred. He watched the pulse in Tony's throat jump as he stroked Tony's skin with the lightest of touches. He let his fingers trail over Tony's chest, then down, over the quivering muscles of his stomach, and he let his hand come to rest low on Tony's belly, fingertips just barely brushing the trail of wiry hair that led lower.

Tony sobbed again, a quiet, broken sound, and Steve's cock throbbed.

The tentacle on Tony's thigh inched higher, with a slick sucking sound—but not high enough.

Transfixed, Steve could only watch the slow slide of the tentacle over Tony's skin, the sway of Tony's hips in the air. Tony was panting, breathless now, groaning out half-syllables, arching and pushing harder against the tentacles, but he was held fast. The tentacles could do whatever they wanted.

"Please," Tony murmured. "Please, Steve, you're killing me here. I need you. I'll do anything," he begged. "Anything you can name, anything you can think of, I'll do it, just touch me."

Steve allowed himself a smile, and he leaned in, close enough to kiss Tony. "Anything?"

"Anything," Tony said, pleading, and he tried to push his cock up against Steve, tried to rub up against him, but Steve danced away and Tony groaned. "Your deepest, darkest fantasy," he offered. "The ultimate blank check."

Steve laughed. "My fantasy? We're already living it, Tony."

He could leave him here, like this, naked and bound and begging. Were there other people in this dream? Would they come find him? Perhaps Steve could watch that. Perhaps he could watch the tentacle monster take him again.

_Yes_ , the tentacle monster said, and a tentacle curled possessively over Tony's hip, inches from where Steve's hand still rested. And then Steve understood what it had in mind.

As the tentacle slid over Tony' balls and coiled around the base of his cock, Steve reached out and gently encircled the head of Tony's cock with his fingertips. Tony moaned, a low, throaty noise, need and relief together, and he shoved his hips forward, again and again, begging for more with his body just as he had with his words. The tentacle twined around the shaft of Tony's cock expertly as Steve worked him with his fingers, with all the dexterity the tentacle didn't have. The edge of his fist bumped the tentacle on every downstroke; it was pleasantly warm—blood-hot—and it was slick. He could only imagine how it felt to Tony, how soft and tight it would be, fucking into it.

The tentacle rippled, coiling even tighter. Tony gasped, and the rhythm of his thrusts stuttered. "Steve," Tony breathed. "I'm—oh, fuck—I'm gonna, I'm gonna—"

Steve didn't want this to be over.

"Not yet," he whispered into Tony's ear, and he slowed the pace of his hand, just to savor Tony's sob of frustrated denial. "Not yet—"


	4. Day Four

_Oh God, not again._

Steve opened his eyes to nighttime darkness, the soft sound of Tony's sleeping breaths, and the shameful hot tangle of arousal, throbbing through him.

Hadn't he suffered enough? He had survived the tentacle monster, and that had been awful enough—but it seemed as if his own mind wasn't done with it. It wasn't rational. It wasn't sensible. It was twisted and wrong and his brain couldn't stop treating him to lurid fantasies of the way things could have been, not that he should have wanted this either.

But he did.

It was plain enough to see where this one had come from: the dream Tony had begged for his touch, hours after the real Tony had told him about never being able to touch anyone. And Steve's mind had been perverted enough to turn Tony's very real pain into another awful fantasy.

And it was still doing it for him.

Tony had kicked the covers halfway off in his sleep, and the crimson robe had somehow gotten hiked up. In the dimness, the long line of one of Tony's legs lay, exposed, dotted with fading round bruises all the way up to one bony hip. The tentacles had left their mark.

Steve swallowed hard and imagined his hand, curving around Tony's waist, his thumb stroking the jut of Tony's hipbone.

Tony was sleeping peacefully, a foot away from him.

If Steve just reached out—

No. _No_. He couldn't. He wasn't going to. That was despicable. So maybe Tony'd been touch-starved. So maybe he was lonely now. But Steve wasn't going to do what he so badly wanted him to do.

He remembered the joy in his mind, the way the tentacle monster had called Tony _fine and sweet_ , the way its limbs had coiled around Tony's flesh. Steve breathed in, a ragged breath, loud in the silence of the cabin, and heat coursed through him. What if Tony let him touch him like that?

As quietly as possible, Steve levered himself out of bed. If he couldn't trust himself to lie next to Tony, he had to get out of the way.

Maybe this wasn't really him.

The thought brought with it both terror and instant joyous relief, as if some nefarious craving had finally been sated. The monster had been a telepath. Maybe it had altered Steve's brain, changed his thoughts. Maybe it had done this to him.

Hell, maybe some part of it was still here.

He hadn't even looked in the basement, since he'd brought the remains of Tony's armor back up. And he hadn't looked around much then, either.

It was better than shutting himself in the bathroom, he thought, as he carefully padded across the cabin to the other room, where the door to the basement was, exactly as he had left it.

He lifted the trap door and eased down the stairs; they creaked beneath his weight.

The basement was dark. For an ordinary human it would have been pitch-black, but Steve had the serum. As he breathed, as he let his eyes become accustomed to the light level, the long track of the stairs and the world beneath them slowly filled in in shades of gray, like a photograph, a memory preserved on film.

An old photograph, he reminded himself. Almost no one shot black and white anymore.

He clambered down the stairs and picked his way across the floor to the remains of the summoning circle, scuffed and outlined on the stone. There were huge crusted dark splotches of what Steve was guessing was slime from the tentacle monster. The patches were at their largest where the center of the circle had been.

And that was it. There was nothing else. He looked. He listened. There was no sound, no movement, no monsters lurking in the dark.

It was all him.

Despondent, Steve fell to his knees at the edge of the circle, hitting the floor hard, an ache that rattled him. And when he looked up, all he could picture was how the monster had filled the space. How it had taken Tony. How it had made Tony want it.

He remembered Tony, dark-eyed, overwhelmed with pleasure, losing all control—and in his mind, Tony would do it again and again, Tony would beg him, Tony would plead with him, demanding his touch the way he'd asked for the monster—

Steve wasn't surprised when he realized his fingers were working at his fly again. Make it quick, get it over with, move on.

The monster had been quick. It hadn't taken much. It had touched him, just like this, and he'd been watching Tony, and Tony had been watching him, watching him come, and— oh, God—

Steve doubled over and came, with an ashamed sob, spattering the ground in front of himself.

The only monster here was him.

* * *

"Steve?"

Tony's voice jerked him unpleasantly awake, and his head slid forward out of his cupped hands and began to fall toward the table. He'd fallen asleep sitting upright at the kitchen table, head in his hands, elbows braced on the table. There had been no way, after this latest... lapse... that he was going back to bed again next to Tony.

Of course, now he was going to have to attempt to explain his behavior to Tony without reference to the actual truth.

Tony's voice was curious, bewildered, and—Steve allowed himself to imagine this—perhaps slightly disappointed. Of course, there was no reason for Tony to be disappointed. Not that Tony knew about, anyway. He certainly would have been, had he known what Steve had done. Had been doing. Had been doing, had kept doing, had been unable to stop himself from doing.

He stopped his face from hitting the table just as the memory of everything he'd dreamed and then done filtered into his brain, as he blinked, came fully awake, and stared at Tony.

"Yes?"

"You were in bed last night," Tony said, frowning. "And now you're here. Is there something wrong?" The tiniest smile curled around his mouth; he was trying to make a joke of it. "What, do I snore that badly? It's okay. You can tell me. I can take it."

_No, you can't_ , Steve thought, instantly, miserably. _You'd never forgive me._

Steve shook his head. "I— no. It's not you. You're fine. I'm fine."

One of those sentences was a lie. And it was obvious that Tony knew exactly which one, because his eyes narrowed, and then he sighed.

"Do you ever think," Tony began, with an inflection that made it sound like a general observation about the state of the world, "that this would work so much better if you decided to tell me the truth?" He paused, for effect. "No? Just me, then? Well, it's only a suggestion." He turned away and headed into the kitchen. "Eggs okay?" he added, as if he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. "I think we still have a few eggs left, so that's my pick for breakfast unless there was anything in particular you wanted to save them for."

His heart pounding, Steve sat in silence and watched Tony walk away.

He was going to have to own up eventually.

He couldn't do it.

He cleared his throat. "No, uh. Eggs are fine. Eggs are good." Tony said nothing. "I can help, if you want," he added, and he hoped Tony didn't notice how desperate he sounded.

If they just acted like everything was normal, everything would be normal. The dreams had to stop eventually. For God's sake, Tony had had it so much worse than he had. He needed to pull himself together.

Tony shrugged and set the egg carton on the counter. "Sure. Go ahead and crack all the eggs." He made a rueful grimace and lifted his arm. "It's a little tricky with one hand."

So Steve stepped up, and he got to work.

It was such a small thing, when it finally happened.

He was whisking the eggs—he'd added milk to make them stretch a little more, the way he'd learned as a child—and Tony was awkwardly cubing cheese, as the grater really needed two hands. Tony had, of course, refused to switch tasks. Steve glanced over and saw that he was done with the small piece of cheese that he'd started with; there had been another block in the refrigerator.

"I'll get you some more cheese," Steve offered.

Tony was between him and the fridge, and he had to move around him to get there—or he would have, except that Tony put his hand out, trying to hold him back.

"No, that's okay—"

"I've got it," Steve insisted. "Come on—"

Tony moved to get a grip on his bicep, to push him away, but before he could even touch him, Steve saw where his hand was going to settle, and for a terrible instant all he could think of was the dream, touching Tony, violating Tony—

He flinched. He froze.

Tony stopped dead, his hand not even an inch from Steve's arm, parallel to it.

Steve followed the line of Tony's arm up his body to his face, pale, drained of all color. Tony's mouth worked.

"I get it," Tony said. There was something cold and distant in his eyes. "You can't stand to touch me. This is how it is."

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

"Tony," he heard himself say, "it's not like that—"

"Then you _explain what it's fucking like_ , Steve," Tony spat. And that one sentence, that was all the fight left in him, because he took three wobbly steps back until he hit the wall of the kitchen.

Steve didn't follow him.

Steve couldn't say anything. The truth would ruin everything.

Five seconds of silence. Steve measured it by his heartbeat.

Tony snorted. He was trembling. "Yeah," he whispered. "That's what I thought."

"I can't be here," Steve said, unsteadily, and he was already taking a step backwards, toward the door. "I can't— I have to— I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He turned and fled, and he didn't look back.

* * *

Steve realized as soon as he stepped outside that he couldn't run. Not this time.

Nothing was going to be solved by this. They were going to have to talk, and spending a couple of hours wandering through the woods wasn't going to make the inevitable ruin of their friendship any easier to take. It was just going to delay it.

He had to come up with something to say.

Steve sighed and sat down on the cabin's front steps, feeling the chill of the boards even through the heavy leather of his uniform.

Maybe not the absolute truth, but he had to say _something_.

Right now, Tony was sitting inside the cabin, believing that Steve was so disgusted with him that he couldn't even bear to touch him. And sure, the result was the same, but the reason was very much not.

What could he say? _I'm sorry, Tony, I keep dreaming about you and me and tentacles, and I can't take it anymore?_ He obviously couldn't say that, but nothing short of the truth was going to explain the facts.

Steve scrubbed at his face in thought, his palms catching on stubble. He needed to shave. He needed... so many things, really.

Maybe he could just tell Tony that he'd been feeling uncomfortable ever since their encounter with the tentacle monster? Tony would naturally assume that Steve was talking about lingering issues from his interaction with the monster. It wasn't even much of a lie, as lies went.

Steve wondered when he'd decided lying was a good idea.

No one else would have ever believed any of this was possible for Captain America.

It wasn't much, and the lie wouldn't buy him a lot of time, but it was the only thing he could think of.

He stood up, climbed back up the steps, opened the door... and stopped dead, in the doorway, looking at the scene before him.

Tony was sitting at the kitchen table, not looking up.

There was a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him.

* * *

The most terrifying part was that Tony wasn't looking at him. Either he was so distracted that he hadn't heard the door—which said unkind things about the state of his reflexes—or he was so enraptured by the bottle that he simply couldn't handle not looking at it. And that... well, that filled Steve with hideous dread.

"You're back early," Tony said. His voice was as colorless as water, and he still didn't look up from the bottle. Steve knew the answer to his question then. Tony had to keep looking at it, the same way he'd told Steve he had to keep drinking. 

Steve hadn't understood then, and he didn't understand it now.

If Tony had been holding an armed bomb, a loaded gun, Steve would have known what to do. He would have been able to talk him down. But this was Tony's worst enemy, and Steve was powerless against it.

He wished someone else were here. Anyone else. Someone who knew what to say to Tony, someone who would stop him from uncapping that damn bottle, someone who wouldn't just make things worse. That was all he knew how to do.

He couldn't do this. But there were no other choices.

"I thought I'd be able to make a pretty good dent in this before you came back." Tony chuckled, and his fond smile was aimed at the amber glow of the whiskey. His sigh was wistful, contemplative. "You didn't look through the pantry very thoroughly, did you?" He patted the bottle with his free hand. "I found this right after I found the radio, while you were on your hike, the day after we got here. Then I hid it behind the soup cans."

He remembered how Tony had been shaking, then, trying to fake his usual engineering mania, to cover a darker truth. Something had been wrong then, and he hadn't known what. It was beginning to make a horrible kind of sense now.

"Tony," he said, and his voice was ragged and wavering, and he didn't know what to say.

"What?" Tony asked, low and mocking, the question scraping like it hurt him and he was ignoring it. " _Now_ you care? It wasn't like you cared enough to find me while I was drinking. It wasn't like you even cared enough to find me when I'd stopped." He laughed and shook his head. One finger traced the curve of the bottle, caressing it like a lover. "So why the hell should anything I do matter to you now?"

Steve forced the words out. "I— I care, Tony. Of course I care."

Tony chuckled. "You've got a real funny way of showing it." He stared at the bottle; his eyes were going unfocused. "It's not every day that Captain America thinks you're too worthless to even touch."

Oh, Christ. It was his fault. It was his fault after all. Tony was going to start drinking again, and it was going to be all his fault.

Steve took a stumbling step forward, weak in the knees, and he nearly fell as he pushed the front door shut behind himself.

"It's not that," he said, desperate, and he knew it sounded like a lie. "It's not that. I swear it's not. I'd never think that about you. Never."

Tony's laugh was harsh. He still wasn't looking at him. "I'm reasonably intelligent, you know. I like to think I'm good at figuring things out. There aren't a whole lot of other conclusions to draw here. I'm obviously the problem." He shrugged. "It's okay. I'm used to it."

He had to try again. "It's not you," he said. "I've been... having a hard time, lately, dealing with everything." Saying even this much was agony. He wanted to run, to hide. Captain America wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to have these feelings. "And I know I've been... cruel. Hurtful. But you haven't done anything wrong. I promise. It's all me."

Tony said nothing.

Steve was walking across the room now; he came to a halt a few feet from Tony.

All he could think of was the flophouse, and the fire—

"Tell me what to do," he said, and the words caught and rasped. "God, Tony, tell me something. Tell me anything. Tell me what you need me to say. What you need me to do. Please. Anything you need. I'll do it."

"I understand that I'm weak," Tony said, very quietly, as if he hadn't heard anything Steve had said. "I know that's all you see in me. You're probably wondering how stupid I am, that I can't stop destroying my own life. You made that perfectly clear."

"Tony—"

"I can't do this anymore." Tony's voice was wretched. "Everything hurts."

He was too far to touch Tony, but he was standing there, numbly, planted to the floor. "I know. I know it hurts. I'm sorry." He could feel his hands clench into fists and it wasn't what he wanted, it wasn't what he wanted at all, but sheer terror had always made him want to punch back. "But this isn't the answer."

Tony spun around in his chair.

At least the bottle stayed behind him, on the table.

"How the fuck would _you_ know?" he spat out, and his face was a hideous rictus of anger and pain. Tears tracked down his cheeks. "I'm not like you. I'm not strong. Not like this. Not enough for this. And you can't tell me you understand, because I know you don't." He snorted. "You gonna tell me again how I should cheer up because I used to be rich and successful? You should make sure to mention the part where I can have anyone I want. I liked that. That was a real hoot." He laughed. "As if anyone would want me now."

"Tony, _please_." He was blinking back tears. "I don't know what to say. I know I don't. I never did. And I hurt you, and I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "But please don't do this."

"You said a man has to want to be helped," Tony said, dully, with no emotion, like he was trying to throw Steve's words back in his face and they'd only landed halfway. "I suppose I'm no kind of man, then. You wouldn't be the first to tell me so."

"No." Steve's voice was shaking. "No, Tony, no, I never meant—"

It didn't matter what he had meant, did it? It only mattered what Tony had heard. And Tony had clearly heard that Steve thought he was worthless.

He took a breath. He held out his hand.

Tony's eyes tracked the motion. "Yes?"

"Talk to me." He was pleading, he was begging, and he knew it. "You said I didn't understand. I want to understand. I'm here. I'm listening."

There was only silence then as Tony stared up at him, a long, contemplative, unreadable stare. This was Tony's choice. He'd made his case already. This was Tony's decision.

And then Tony scowled and flung a hand out, to the empty chair across from him. "Why not?" he muttered. "It's not like you can think any less of me."

Steve caught his breath, wanting to object—but he'd promised to listen. So he took the seat Tony had indicated, and he sat. And he waited.

"You asked why." Tony was drumming his fingers on the table, a restless, nervous tattoo. The words were quiet. "And honestly I'm not sure it's something anyone can explain, but I can try."

Steve nodded. "Please."

Tony was staring over Steve's shoulder, off into the distance, as if he could see an entire other world beyond him. "Maybe you'll understand it better like this." He paused. "You know how it feels, being an Avenger? It's a calling. There are so many things that any of us could have done with our lives, and instead we made the Avengers. It fills something within you, some need in your soul, this desire to help people, to be your very best self, in a way that only being an Avenger can." He looked down, a trace of an embarrassed smile on his face. "That's how I've always thought of it, anyway. You could be a comic book artist and nothing else if that was what you really wanted, but there would always be something missing. In the end, you always need to be here."

"I'm not sure I understand." Steve squinted. "I mean, yes, sure, being an Avenger feels like that, but what does that have to do with drinking?" Tony couldn't have meant to say that that was a higher calling.

And it wasn't like Steve was feeling much like he was very good at being Captain America, these days, either.

Tony's smile was rueful. "This is the part you have to imagine, I think. You have to imagine that there are other things you know about yourself, as sure as you know you're destined to be an Avenger. And what you have to imagine is the certain knowledge that you are no good whatsoever. A failure of a human being." He half-smiled, as Steve stared, stunned into silence. "And if you've never felt like that, I'm glad for you. I am. It's a hell I'd never wish on my worst enemy. But for me it's absolutely real, a fact I know about myself the same way you know you're Captain America. I've always known."

"But that's not true!" Steve protested. "Tony, you're— you're brilliant, and kind, and generous. You're a good teammate. You're one of my best friends—"

_And you're ridiculously handsome and the star of every dream I've had this week_ —

But Tony was shaking his head. "Yeah, see, that's not how it works, Cap. You can't just tell me that. It's sweet, but that doesn't make it true. Not in here." He tapped his temple with his index finger and then splayed his palm over his heart. "Think of it like a wound, maybe. You're hurting. You're bleeding out. You can't stop. And you go looking for ways to fill that void in yourself, the same way you can fill that other void by being an Avenger."

He paused, and Steve found his own gaze now drawn to the bottle, on the table. Tony followed his stare, and then chuckled.

"It's not really the only way," Tony said. "If it were, I'd probably have died before you ever met me." He shrugged. "Being an Avenger does it, actually, some of the time. If I'm Iron Man, then I don't have to be myself. Engineering can do it. Sex, sometimes." He was staring at the bottle again, dreamy and distant. "But one way is the quickest, the easiest, and the most reliable."

"Drinking," Steve said, flatly.

"You _forget_ ," Tony breathed, and his face shone bright, like oblivion was everything he'd ever wanted. "You're the person you always wished you were, funny and charming and brilliant. Everyone loves you. Or if they don't, you don't care. And maybe it doesn't quite fill up the whole void, but it's close enough, and maybe for a few hours you just feel _normal_. Maybe this is how everyone else feels all the time, you think. Maybe they just feel... happy. Maybe this is what it's like. Maybe this is happiness."

Oh, God. He hadn't known. He really hadn't known. "I'm sorry," he said again. Everything felt numb. "I wish I'd known it was like that."

He'd thought Tony had been weak. Like it had just been some kind of moral lapse. Something he could talk himself out of. Steve could take it or leave it, so surely everyone else could. But the way Tony was talking about it, it sounded different. The cure for a problem Steve had never had.

He'd been a goddamn idiot.

"I drank to fit in, at first." Tony shrugged. "Business, right? Everyone does it. And then I just... kept right on going. Setback? Bad day? Another drink. Sobered up after that incident with the Carnelian ambassador, but I was just hanging on by a thread. And then Indries happened. And it turned out I couldn't handle the setbacks, with or without a drink, and by then there was really nothing else left of me, because that was all I knew how to do."

"And then I found you at your worst."

Tony... shook his head again. Steve gaped. Oh, God. It got worse? How had it gotten worse? Tony had nearly died when he'd found him. How could it have been worse than that?

"Actually," Tony said, and Steve would have paid good money to never see that look on his face again, "I had a roof over my head when you found me, so..."

Denial rose instantly to Steve's lips. "No. Oh, no."

"The money ran out. Stane took everything, and I had nothing." Tony was staring off into the distance. "I was living on the streets. In a goddamn cardboard box, if you can imagine that."

No one ever looked twice at the winos. Had he passed Tony on the street, unknowing?

"You could have come to me," Steve said, even as he thought about what he would have done. Berated him more, probably. "I would have—"

"Anything you gave me, I would have sold for liquor money," Tony said, harshly. "And if you offered me your home, I wouldn't have stayed. Rhodey even put me up in his own mother's house, for a bit. I ran away. Had another drink. Doctor told me my liver was going to give out on me for sure."

Other people had tried. Jim had tried. Jim had been there. Steve had just... given up. How could he have done that?

_Not the time_ , he told himself. Tony needed him here, now.

Steve exhaled. "So then you quit?"

Tony laughed, a bitter sound. "Are you kidding? No. Of course I didn't quit. It was all I had left. I couldn't even accept that I had a problem. I ran into this cop one day." His mouth quirked. "He kind of reminded me of you, now that I think about it. And I guess he figured me out, somehow, because he said he'd bet me fifty bucks that I couldn't stay sober until midnight. And I figured, hey, anyone can do anything for twelve hours, and fifty bucks buys a lot of booze. I did it. But it was hard. And I started to think that maybe that guy had a point."

"And _then_ you quit?" Steve asked, hopefully. Tony had mentioned being in the hospital—maybe he'd finally gone and checked himself in somewhere. That had to have been what happened. He'd seen the light. He'd gotten help.

Tony was silent again, this silence somehow harsher, and then the next words out of his mouth, a calm question, made everything a thousand times worse. "Do you remember that blizzard we had in December?"

Oh, God, no. Tony couldn't mean that the way it sounded.

It had been a freak storm, early in the season, dumping a foot of snow on New York. Steve had been in Brooklyn Heights with Bernie. He hadn't been on call for the team that weekend, so he'd stayed in and watched the snow fall, delighting just a little in his enforced idleness. They'd cuddled under a blanket on the couch.

And all the while, Tony had been— Tony had been—

"You didn't," Steve said, sick and bleak and terrified, and it had been three months ago and he hadn't known. Tony could have died and he hadn't known. "You weren't. Tell me you weren't out in that snowstorm. Oh, God, Tony."

If anyone knew what being trapped in the ice was like, it was Steve; his mind filled in old, fragmented memories. The water closing over his head. The darkness. A bone-deep chill, so cold that somehow it was almost warm. He'd shivered for weeks after the Avengers had found him, weeks in the bright summer sun.

And Tony had been there too.

"I was broke. I was out of money, out of booze, and the storm was coming in. End of the road." Tony's eyes flickered shut. "All I had left were the clothes on my back. So I sold my coat, bought the cheapest swill that the guy at the liquor store would give me with all the money I had, and I sat down in the snow to get drunk and then die. Figured I was going to die anyway, so why not hurry it up? Figured there wasn't anything left to live for."

_There's so much to live for_ , he wanted to say. _And even if you don't see the good in yourself, I do. And I'm so sorry._

"What happened?" Steve hardly recognized his own voice.

"I ran into a woman I'd gotten to know on the street. Not like that," he hastened to add. "A friend." There was pain in Tony's eyes. "Her name was Gretl, and she was pregnant, and wouldn't you know it, she went into labor right there. I helped her deliver the baby. She didn't make it. But the kid did." He lifted his head. His eyes were haunted. "And I realized that that kid deserved a chance. He deserved to live. And if he did, then maybe I did too. That was when I decided I was going to stop drinking. And that was when the paramedics found me, half-frozen in the snow, holding this newborn baby." 

That explained the two weeks in the hospital. "I'm glad you're all right," Steve told him. The words were woefully inadequate, but they were all he had. "I mean, I'm glad you made it through."

"It's not that easy. It's not over. It's never over." Tony's gaze had drifted back toward the bottle on the table. "So if this is weakness, then I'm weak, because all I want to do now is head right back to the bottle. I know exactly where this road goes, and the hell of it is that I still want to go there."

What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? How could he care for Tony in any way that could make up for Tony hating himself? How could he take back what he said, what he had done? His body had betrayed him with that one unconscious flinch, last in the line of indignities.

It could have been so much worse. At least Tony hadn't figured out his actual problem.

"You're not weak," he said, very carefully, knowing he had to choose his words precisely, but having no clue how. He was blundering through this conversation blindfolded. "You've fought a battle I've never had to fight, and maybe I'm never going to understand how that feels. But you're winning. Right now, you're winning. You're here, and you're alive, and you didn't pick up that bottle again."

Tony's reply was barely above a whisper. "I want to."

"The way I see it," Steve said, "you'll always want to. That's not— that's not a failing. That's just wanting. It is what it is."

He hadn't understood, before. This was what Tony had meant.

"Yeah, but." Tony paused, licked his lips. His gaze darted to the bottle and back. "Do you know what that monster really did to me? It made me want what it did. It made me like it. And it's not so much about what it did to me, what it did to my body, but it made me feel—Christ, Steve, it was even better than being drunk. I was happy. I was finally happy. It was everything I've ever wanted for the past four months. And it gave me that. And I— I want it back. With every fiber of my being, I want that feeling back. And it terrifies me, how much I want it. What I'd do for it. How I'm willing to fuck over everything in my life, the minuscule scraps of my life that I've clawed back for myself, just to feel like that again."

Oh.

This was it. This was how the monster had hurt Tony. He'd thought it had been because the monster had hurt him physically, had violated Tony's body—but he'd been wrong. He remembered the dazed, vacant look in Tony's eyes. He remembered how Tony had smiled and told him nothing hurt. And that was what Tony wanted, most of all: a world where nothing hurt.

Well, it wasn't as if Steve could blame Tony for that.

Steve stared at Tony, as all of Tony's behavior over the past few days started to make sense. He'd refused painkillers because for him it was all associated with addiction, even if the actual drugs on offer wouldn't have done anything to his mind. He'd been so determined to refuse help, to do everything even when he couldn't do most of it easily with one hand, because he hadn't wanted to be weak. He hadn't wanted to give in, about anything.

"I didn't know," Steve said, stupidly. "I thought you were— I thought it was because—"

He gestured vaguely and hoped Tony wouldn't ask for clarification.

"I mean, I'm not saying that part was fun. I didn't actually like the tentacles all that much." Tony shrugged. "But it wasn't... the part I couldn't deal with." He sighed and gave one last longing look at the bottle. "I think I'd better pour that out."

It sounded like it was killing him to say. But he'd said it.

Steve smiled gently. "Okay. Can I— do you want me to help?"

Tony bit his lip and nodded. "Yeah. Please."

Tony picked up the bottle and they rose together and walked over to the kitchen. Tony gripped the bottle awkwardly, with his right hand, and Steve obligingly uncapped it; the air filled with a familiar smoky fragrance, and Tony shuddered.

He glanced back at Steve, looking for—reassurance?—and Steve reached out and laid his hand, gently, on Tony's arm. He could feel Tony shaking. They stood there, frozen together in silence, and then Tony decisively upended the bottle over the sink.

Steve watched the whiskey trickle down the drain. Tony had shut his eyes, a frozen mask of pain on his face, shaking more and more.

When the bottle was empty, Tony opened his hand, letting the bottle land in the sink, not even bothering to set it down. He turned, stumbled—and Steve caught him up in his arms and held on tight.

Tony tucked his face against Steve's neck; his breath was hot and ragged against Steve's skin, and he held on fiercely with his one good arm even as Steve held him back.

"I'm proud of you," Steve said, and Tony made a noise that sounded like a sob. "I am." He stroked Tony's back in little circles. "And you're strong, Tony, you're the strongest of all of us. And you don't have to be alone, okay? You've got me. I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you needed me, but I promise I'm not going anywhere this time. We're going to get out of here, and I'll be right here with you, as long as you want me there."

There was silence again, and Steve wondered if he had said too much, if Tony didn't want that, if Tony never wanted to see him again—

"You'd have to move to California," Tony murmured, and he lifted his head, and he was smiling.

Steve found he was smiling back. "Maybe I'd like California." He'd been impressed enough with the West Coast compound when he'd run into Clint and Bobbi while chasing the Armadillo—and he was sure the place would be even better with Tony there.

_I'd go anywhere_ , he thought, _as long as you're there._

"Maybe so," Tony agreed. "Maybe we can find out."

* * *

The rest of the day was better.

A weight had been lifted from their shoulders, and they both knew it. Tony just kept looking at him with such heartbreaking _relief_ in his eyes, like the strain of having suffered alone with his problems was too much for him. But now he had Steve. Or, well, at least Steve was going to try.

He wasn't going to flinch away. He was going to be here for Tony.

It sounded calculated when he thought of it like that, but it couldn't have been that bad—Tony didn't notice. So he made a point of brushing up against him, casually, when they were eating, when they were clearing the table, the way he had always done before, and with every touch Steve's stomach unknotted itself a little bit more. He could almost relax. Everything was going to be okay. Nothing was going wrong. There was nothing wrong. So he'd had a couple of odd dreams, he told himself. That was all it was. He didn't have to do anything about them. They would go away on their own. They'd have to.

"Hey," Tony said. "You want to help me break down these repulsor assemblies?" His smile was careful, as if he wasn't sure Steve wanted to. They were finding their way again, but everything was still so fragile.

"Sure thing." Steve glanced over the table. "What do you need me to do?"

Tony's smile now had turned a little self-effacing. "Be a glorified clamp, I'm afraid. I need you to hold the gauntlets and boots perfectly still while I work on them. It's going to be long, boring, and painstaking."

Steve looked him straight in the eye. "I would be honored."

Some nebulous emotion flickered across Tony's face—a glimpse, perhaps, of some kind of longing, quickly quelled. "All right," Tony said, with a brisk snap to his voice like he was ordering the team. "Gloves off, Cap. You're going to need dexterity for this."

Steve tugged off his gloves and set them on the table, then he held out his hands as Tony laid a battered repulsor gauntlet across his open palms.

"Okay," Tony said, after Steve had worked through the series of instructions necessary to open the casing and expose some kind of energy line that ran through the inside of the arm up to the palm repulsor. "The part I need, if it's still functional, is actually under the main energy conduit. So with one hand, you're going to keep the main assembly tilted toward me—uh-huh, good, just like that—and then with your other hand, you're going to need to come around under and pull this tab back so I can get at the relays."

He demonstrated with his right hand; Steve couldn't quite see, because the bulk of the gauntlet was in the way, but when Tony withdrew his hand, he made his best attempt to mimic what he thought Tony had done.

"Like this?"

"Close." Tony pursed his lips. "Here, you want to move your thumb down a little. And bend your wrist, like this—"

And then Steve nearly forgot how to breathe, because Tony was touching him.

Tony's hand on his was warm, his palm covering Steve's hand as he gently nudged Steve's fingers in the direction he wanted them to go. Steve was reminded, absurdly, of the first time he'd ever held hands on a date, when it had felt daring, romantic, the most exciting thing anyone could ever hope to do. It felt kind of like that again. His heart was pounding so loudly he wondered if Tony could hear it. His hands were beginning to sweat from nerves.

Tony tugged Steve's hand up and then didn't let go; his long fingers were still encircling Steve's wrist. All Steve could feel was the heat where Tony was touching him. Everything was hot, everything within him was fire.

Tony had leaned in, his head close to Steve's. Their faces were inches away. If Tony just moved a bit closer—

All he could think about, suddenly, was everything Tony had said he'd wanted Steve to do to him. How he'd offered Steve his body, instantly, without hesitation. _You could fuck me_ , he'd said. _I could suck you off_. Maybe it had been true. Maybe it had been something Tony really wanted. He had sounded so sincere.

"Good," Tony murmured. He was smiling, the smallest possible smile, just edging the corners of his mouth. It was a real smile, not the thousand-watt grin he saved for the papers. "Exactly like that."

The praise made something within Steve glow bright. Tony had to feel this between them too, didn't he? It couldn't all be Steve's imagination. This wasn't Tony's famed charisma, the charm he could wear like another mask—this was something real.

Tony still hadn't let go. His thumb drifted over the back of Steve's hand, rubbing back and forth, ever so lightly. It might have been a caress.

"I'm going to need you to stay just like that for as long as possible," Tony said, with another smile. "You think you can do that?"

"I can keep going for as long as you need me to." It was only after he'd said it that he considered the innuendo possible in that sentence.

"Mmm." Tony's gaze flickered down and back up, his dark eyelashes fluttering. "All that super-soldier stamina's good for something, huh?"

_I can show you what else it's good for_. The reply came to his mind that would take this conversation into the realm where there was no more plausible deniability. He opened his mouth—

Hideous reality crashed into Steve's blissful fantasy. Tony had just said that the worst part of his experience had been exactly that: the monster had made him want things. Things he wouldn't have wanted. There was no way in the world that Steve could ever seriously consider anything Tony had said while under the monster's influence. Whether or not it was true—and it needn't have been, given what else the monster had made Tony enjoy—it would have been massively irresponsible and incredibly cruel to bring it up.

If Tony wanted him, he could say so while he was sober. It was clear he wasn't going to. So that was a no. And it wasn't as if Steve was about to offer anything, not with the state his mind was in.

Tony was having a horrible week already. He didn't need this. He didn't need Steve. Not like this.

So it wasn't going to happen. He had to move on.

"Yeah," Steve said, hollowly, "I guess."

Tony dropped his hand.

Tony's fingers were trembling again, a minute movement, and Steve was reminded again that Tony really wasn't okay.

Not getting involved was the right thing to do, Steve told himself.

It still hurt, though.

* * *

Tony had been right; it was finicky, painstaking work. It took them half a day to disassemble the gauntlet, at which point Tony determined that the part he needed was unusable, and then the entire rest of the day for the other gauntlet, with the same result.

"Don't lose hope," Tony told him, as they were clearing away the remains of dinner. "I still have two boots left to cannibalize, after all."

Steve glanced over at the pile of armor. The boots, like everything else, like the gauntlets had been, were a scraped and dented mess. And if the inside matched the outside—well, that wasn't going to be good.

Steve made himself smile. "Yeah, okay," he said. "I'll keep my fingers crossed. If anyone can do it, you can."

"Still believe in me, huh?" The question should have been light, joking—but there was tension in Tony's voice.

"Of course," he said, and something in Tony's eyes softened. "Always."

It was time to get to sleep, then, and as the two of them unfolded the mattress from the couch once again, Steve started to ponder the idea that maybe he'd been a little silly, insisting on sleeping in his uniform. They weren't going to be able to move on from this if he kept this up, and the best way to make it not be an issue was just to behave normally. Not dwell on it. Tony had clearly thought it was odd enough to remark on more than once, and it wasn't like they'd never been around each other in states of undress before. It would be the mature, responsible thing to do.

When he thought about it like that, there was really only one choice.

So he sat on the bed, pulled his boots off, and then unhooked the mail of his uniform shirt and pulled the whole thing off over his head, along with the undershirt. When he stood up to get his pants off, Tony was staring at him, wide-eyed, like this was the last thing in the world he'd expected, like he'd never seen Steve with his shirt off before, like he wasn't sure where to look.

"Is this a problem?" Steve asked, one hand on his half-unbuttoned fly. "I can—"

"No, no," Tony hastened to say. "Absolutely fine. I'm glad you're feeling— I mean, you should be comfortable."

Tony hadn't quite said it, but it was obvious what he'd meant: he was happy that Steve was comfortable enough around him to behave like his normal self. It had been the right thing to do.

"Okay," Steve said. "Okay, good."

Tony's glance at Steve's underwear—the only item of clothing he was leaving on—was mock-disdainful. "Also, Cap, you can do so much better than tighty-whities. Think about it."

Steve snorted. "I'll consider it."

He slid under the sheets, the cotton heavy and cool on his bare skin, and the bed creaked as Tony settled next to him.

It was going to be all right, he told himself. Tony was going to be okay. Tony was his friend. Tony was going to get better. They were only friends, but it was going to be fine. He could handle that. He'd been handling it. Everything was fine.

And maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't dream tonight.

* * *

The dream could have been any one of a thousand half-suppressed fantasies, a thousand dreams Steve had had before: they were at the mansion, him and Tony, in his room, the room Tony had given him. Daylight slanted through the windowpanes, illuminating dust motes, warming everything it touched. He and Tony stood in the light, and they were kissing.

The kiss was slow, leisurely, easy, unhurried. Tony's mouth on his was soft; Tony's body, in his arms, was solid and strong. They weren't going anywhere. There was nothing else in life but this: him and Tony, in his room, kissing, just like he'd always wanted.

He ran his hand up Tony's spine, up the fine fabric of his shirt, to the nape of his neck, spreading his hand to cradle the base of his skull and pull him closer.

Tony made a quiet, pleased humming noise. "Steve," he whispered. "More."

The laziness was gone; intensity and urgency pounded through him, a drumbeat thundering through his body, drawing the heat up into him. He was hard, aching for it, and Tony was too; he could feel Tony's cock pressing up against him.

Tony's mouth opened against his and Steve licked inside, hot and wet and deep, like he could fuck Tony with his tongue. Tony moaned and pulled Steve close, urging him on, one hand tightening over Steve's ass to hold him closer and closer, rocking against him as the kiss deepened.

Breaking the kiss, Tony panted out a challenge, grinning, dark-eyed. "Come on," he breathed. "More, Steve, more."

He knew exactly what Tony wanted.

The tentacle slithered over Steve's shoulder, a warm and reassuring weight, and its shining tip crooked in the air, a beacon. It glistened in the sunlight.

Tony licked his lips and then opened his mouth for it.

The tentacle advanced slowly, ever so slowly, and Tony leaned forward to welcome it. He kissed it. He licked the very tip of it, and Steve watched the oily, iridescent slick shine on Tony's lips. He watched it smear across Tony's chin and dampen his mustache. The tentacle teased him, curling back and forth over Tony's mouth until Tony let out the softest of whines, impatient.

Tony's gaze was unfocused and his smile was bright. He was _happy_. Steve smiled to see it, pleased; he'd given Tony something that had made him happy.

Tony opened his mouth, and the tentacle pushed its way in, a gentle slide. Tony's lips closed over the tip of the tentacle, and desire clawed its way through Steve as he watched Tony suck the tentacle. Tony's lips were slick and red, and he shut his eyes and took the tentacle down and down with the ease of long practice. A wet, oily mess dripped from the corner of his mouth, down his jaw, all the way down his neck. He was debauched. He was gorgeous.

Hypnotized, Steve watched the tentacle slide into Tony's mouth. Tony's lips closed around it and he sucked, ever so delicately, his cheeks hollowing out. His face was radiant, the very picture of perfect bliss.

Steve couldn't say how long it went on, but eventually the tentacle withdrew, and Tony's eyes fluttered open, huge and dark, pupils dilated wide. He smiled and sighed.

"Steve," Tony murmured, his voice raspy and raw, and the need in Tony's voice made Steve's cock grow impossibly harder. "Steve, please, _more_ —"

The tentacle coiled around Tony's neck and pushed him to the floor like he was on a leash; Tony sank to his knees and looked up at Steve, pleading. His gaze drifted to Steve's erection, plainly visible even through the leather of his uniform, and then back up again.

"Please, Steve," Tony whispered. "I need you."

"Tony," Steve said, and it was all he could manage, but Tony understood.

Tony's hands deftly undid his belt, then his fly, and then—oh God—drew his cock out. Tony was looking at him like the only thing he'd ever wanted in the world was to get his mouth on Steve. Steve could imagine it now, how good he would be, how talented—

"Tony," Steve said, hoarsely. "Oh, God, Tony—"

Tony leaned forward, and his hands were—

—on Steve's shoulder? No, that wasn't right—

"Steve," Tony said, urgently, in his ear. How was Tony doing that? When had he stood up? This didn't make any sense.

Tony's hand pressed into Steve's shoulder, a painfully tight grip, and he was shaking him.

"Steve," Tony said again, his voice gone tense, concerned. "Steve, it's just a dream, okay? Steve, come on, wake up."

A dream.

He was dreaming.

He opened his eyes.

Wide-eyed, Tony was staring at him in the darkness.


	5. Day Five

"Steve?" Tony repeated. "Are you okay?" His face was twisted in concern. "It's all right. It wasn't real. Whatever it was, it was just a dream, all right?"

Tony had pushed himself up; his left arm was still in a sling, but his other hand was still on his shoulder. Steve took a ragged breath, trying not to panic. All his body wanted to focus on was the the feel of Tony's fingers against his skin, a sensation that dissipated into the haze of arousal.

Oh God.

He'd been dreaming about the tentacles again. He'd been dreaming about the tentacles _drugging_ Tony. Tony had said he'd hated it, and Steve had been dreaming it up and getting off on it and, oh God, Tony was _right here_ —

Maybe Tony wouldn't notice.

Steve tried to breathe. He could feel his chest heaving. He didn't seem to be getting any air. It reminded him of the asthma attacks he'd gotten, before the serum. Except, of course, back then the asthma attacks hadn't come with an erection that wouldn't go away, either.

"Steve?" Tony asked again. "You were thrashing around. You— you said my name. Come on, talk to me. You're starting to freak me out. Are you all right? You looked like you were having a bad dream."

Tony paused.

At some point in the night, Steve had kicked the covers off, and he watched as Tony's gaze traveled down his body. It was plain to see that Steve was very, very hard. The underwear didn't hide much of anything.

Tony swallowed audibly. "Uh," Tony said, voice gone slow and awkward with realization. "Or maybe a very good one."

Steve's face was hot, and he was sure the flush had spread to at least his chest as he jerked away from Tony's hand. He needed to get out of here. There was nowhere to go. He ended up grabbing for the sheet and pulling it back over his hips, but it was too late. Tony knew.

He heard his own breathing ratchet up in the quiet room, as panic and shame swamped him, two enemies he couldn't fight. He was covered in sweat, clammy on his skin. And Jesus Christ, he was still hard—although at least this time it was fading, thank God.

"Hey, hey, hey," Tony said, softly, and he held out his hand, palm open. It wasn't a threat; it wasn't the way he would have held out the gauntlet. It was coaxing, easy, disarming. "It's okay. Shh. It's all right."

Tony wouldn't have been so kind if he'd known the truth. It wasn't all right.

Mute, Steve shook his head wildly.

"Sure it is." Tony's voice was a low, soothing murmur. "You gonna tell me you've never had a wet dream? Don't tell me the serum got rid of that, because I'm not buying it." He smiled, an encouragement, an invitation to a joke. "We've all been there. It's okay. It's just a dream. It's all right. It's normal."

"It's not." Steve's voice was hoarse. He didn't even sound like himself. "It's not normal. I was— you were— we were—"

The words caught in his throat.

Tony was silent for several seconds, and when he spoke, he spoke so carefully, each sound precisely chosen and articulated. "It's okay, Steve. It was a dream. So you dreamed about the two of us, uh, together? I mean, I'm obviously flattered by your subconscious attention—" he made a noise, a choked laugh, like he was trying to make a joke of it, but there was something cold and still in his eyes— "but you know it doesn't mean anything, right? It's okay. It's just your neurons firing randomly. Doesn't mean you want to do anything you dream about. It doesn't work like that. It doesn't mean you're not straight."

Oh, God. Tony thought he was terrified just because he'd had a dream about the two of them. Tony assumed he thought _that_ wasn't normal.

Steve coughed. "I'm not."

"What?"

Steve had never pictured coming out like this. He hadn't told anyone. Not since 1945, and that had been three years and a lifetime ago, an entirely different world. And there hadn't really been much talking involved, at the time.

"I'm not," Steve repeated. His heart was in his throat, and he wondered how the hell anyone had this conversation more than once. "I'm not straight."

There was another excruciating silence.

When Steve glanced over, Tony's mouth was rounded, a wordless O of surprise. His eyes were wide.

"Oh." The noise was barely an exhalation. "Well, uh," Tony said, and he still looked blank with shock, scrambling for words. "Welcome to the club." He made another sort-of laugh.

"I think I've been a member longer than you have," Steve pointed out. "Chronologically speaking."

But Tony's head was hanging down now, like Steve had said something wrong. Tony was slumped in on himself. Everything was going wrong.

"So it's me, right?" Tony mumbled, in the direction of the floor. "That's the problem, isn't it? I mean, I'm not so arrogant as to assume that just because you like men, you might be interested in—" he paused and changed directions. "Everything I said to you, when it drugged me. I— I do remember what I said. And I'm sorry. I know it must have been unwelcome." His mouth stretched in a sad smile. "I mean, I can't say I didn't mean it, because, you know, it was a fucking _truth serum_ , but I know I shouldn't have... propositioned you. And I know you don't feel the same way, and I'm fine with that." The last few words were bitten out, and Steve wanted to stop him, but he didn't know how. "I hope we can be teammates again, someday," Tony added. "It's been an honor working with you, but I understand if. If."

Tony lifted his head. His eyes were glimmering, too wet.

A truth serum. Everything he'd said had been real. He'd meant it. He'd meant all of it. Oh, God.

This was all happening too fast, Steve thought, dazed. He wondered if he was still dreaming.

Tony wanted him. Tony had really wanted him. But they couldn't do this, because Steve would just ruin him. Tony didn't know what Steve was really like.

"Tony, no," Steve whispered. "It's not— it's not that. You're not— I've always— I've wanted—" He couldn't say it.

There was a look in Tony's eyes he'd never seen before, a raw and fragile hope, a desperate hunger.

This was when he looked like when every mask was gone.

Tony loved him.

Tony clenched and unclenched his fingers, like more than anything he wanted to reach out. To touch him.

_I feel safe when you touch me_ , he'd said.

He shouldn't. He wouldn't be safe.

"Steve?" Tony's voice was hoarse. He licked his lips. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I _can't_ ," Steve said, and his voice cracked on the word, and there were tears in his eyes. He tried to blink them back. He hoped it was too dark for Tony to see. "I can't. I'm— I'm not right anymore. In my head. I'm all screwed up. You shouldn't be near me." The words were bitter. "I should resign, when we get out of here. I don't deserve to carry the shield."

Tony didn't need this. Tony had his own problems. He didn't need to be bothered with Steve.

He watched Tony swallow hard.

"Okay," Tony said, under his breath. "Well, I can't say I wasn't waiting for it to hit you. Didn't think it would be like this. Okay. Okay. Um. Wow." He ran his hand through his hair. "God, this is a lot to take in at once." He took a breath; it looked like he was visibly steeling himself. "You want to talk about any of it?"

Steve just looked at him.

Tony's smile was pained. "Stupid question, huh?" But his voice was soft. "You think maybe you should talk about it anyway?"

And Steve just—

He lost it.

He started to cry, and he found he couldn't stop. He was sobbing, huge, racking sobs, and tears rolled down his face. He couldn't see. He couldn't even have said why he was crying, exactly, but suddenly everything was too much. Tony wanted him, but they couldn't, and he was just— there was something fundamentally wrong with him. It was like Tony had been talking about, a void within him, except this one was eating him alive and there was nothing he could do about it. Shame and terror swamped him anew.

"Oh, geez," Tony said. "Hey, hey, it's all right. Shh. Come here."

He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Tony that Tony shouldn't dare touch him, but he must not have wanted it enough, because all he could do was let Tony gather him up. It was an awkward hug, because Tony was still wearing that damn sling, but he patted Steve on the back and Steve returned the favor by crying all over the shoulder of his robes, his body heaving.

"It's okay," Tony repeated, and it wasn't, it wasn't. But his voice was low and calming, and Steve wanted desperately to believe him even as his frightened heart hammered in his chest. "I know you don't feel okay right now, but that's okay," Tony said. "It's been a pretty fucked-up few days, honestly." He could feel Tony's breath as he chuckled. "But it's going to be okay." Tony snorted again. "You're better at these inspiring speeches than I am. I'm trying, here. And I— whatever else this is, whatever else this becomes, wherever we go from here, you're still my friend. I'm here for you. I care about you. I always have. You're not going to lose that."

It should have made Steve feel better, but instead it was a deeper wound, misery compounded. Tony wouldn't want any of that if he knew. He bent his head; he could feel his muscles go rigid.

"You don't want me to tell you that?" Tony's voice was clouded with confusion. "Maybe you could give me something to work with, here. You were dreaming?"

"Nightmare," Steve managed to say, and even that was like dragging himself across sharp ice. "Always nightmares. Since the monster. About the monster. But not— they weren't— I _liked_ them."

He shut his eyes.

And then he felt Tony's hand on the side of his face, Tony's thumb stroking his cheekbone, slow and gentle.

"Okay," Tony said, softly. "Okay. So you're dreaming about... the monster?"

Steve nodded.

Tony paused, a delicate, careful hesitation. " _Me_ and the monster?"

Steve nodded again.

"And you liked it," Tony said, quietly.

There was no judgment in Tony's voice, no censure, but Steve looked up anyway. He had to know. He had to see Tony's face.

Tony's expression was just as open as his voice. He wasn't sneering; he wasn't aghast in horror. He was perfectly calm, relaxed. Encouraging, even. As if Steve hadn't just told him something absolutely horrific. Tony's hand was still on Steve's face. His fingers slid through Steve's hair. This was reassurance, Steve realized.

"No wonder you look like shit," Tony said.

Steve let out a helpless bark of laughter.

"I'm sorry," Tony said. "I just mean— I see why you might be kind of out-of-sorts after a few of those dreams." He was petting the nape of Steve's neck now, holding him a little bit away, so he could look him in the eye. "But they're just dreams. Weird things happen in dreams. Weird things happen in sex dreams, even. You know that, right? It's your brain trying to work out the lousy week you've had, while you're sleeping. It doesn't mean you want that to happen to me."

Steve tried to twist away. He couldn't look at Tony. Tony thought it was just a dream. That it was normal. That it wasn't his fault. That he wasn't a monster.

"Steve?" Tony's voice was still soft, laden with concern. Like he wanted to be understanding. Like he understood, even. He understood nothing. "Hey, come on, Steve. It's all right."

"It's not." Steve shook his head. "It's not all right. I _liked_ it."

The corners of Tony's mouth tilted up. "Look, once I had a dream that I was getting hot and heavy with Jarvis, okay? Very nice at the time, weird as hell in the morning. Of all my numerous personal faults, the contents of my X-rated dreams aren't one of them. You can't hold yourself responsible for your dreams. You can't beat yourself up about this. You'll just drive yourself crazy."

"But I _liked_ it," Steve repeated, miserably. He was trembling. He shut his eyes. "Not just in my dreams. I liked it when it happened. When it happened for real. I watched you. I liked what it did to you. And I— I can't. I can't take this."

He wondered if Tony was regretting having poured out all that whiskey.

There was another horrible silence. But Tony's hand was still on the back of his neck. Tony's thumb was rubbing little comforting circles into his skin.

Tony hadn't gone away.

"Okay." Tony's voice was unsteady. "Okay. That's... a different issue." There was another pause. Steve waited for condemnation. "But there's nothing wrong with you, okay? You're a good person."

When Steve looked at Tony this time, his expression was more strained. His hair had fallen into his face, and he was out of hands to push it back with, because he wasn't letting go of Steve.

"What that monster did? That was fucked up. And it wasn't your fault. It touched you. It made you get off on it. And just because your body responded, physically, that doesn't mean you wanted it. That doesn't mean you liked it. That doesn't mean anything about you. And I know you'd tell me the same."

"What if I did?"

Steve could barely say the words. They were only a whisper. But he'd said it.

Tony frowned in confusion. "What if you did what?"

"If I did like it," Steve said, and he was shaking again. "I liked watching. Before it touched me. The monster barely had to do anything to me. It didn't make me. This was already me, don't you get it? This was already in my mind, and it... it _forced_ you... and I liked it."

Tony was still frowning. "But you didn't. Telepathy, remember? Steve, you were _terrified_. I was there."

"Only at the beginning," Steve made himself say. "And I was startled when it touched me, but what I felt? That was all me. It— it drugged you, and I watched, and you didn't notice because it had drugged you, but I— I watched what it did to you, what it made you like, and I can't stop thinking about it."

Tony was blinking rapidly. Steve watched his eyes move. He wondered what was going on in Tony's head.

It had come to this. Tony knew everything.

He didn't need to tell Tony about the depths of his depravity, how he'd done more than just think about it.

Tony bit his lip. "So what you liked," he said, quietly, "was when I liked it."

Tony's voice was intent; he looked like he did when he was bent on an engineering task, as if Steve's awful secret was some kind of puzzle, as if he could narrow down the problem. Troubleshooting, that was what he called it.

There was an awful lot of trouble here.

"But you didn't really like—"

Tony's hand in the sling raised, an aborted gesture. "But that was what you... responded to, right? When I liked it? When _I_ responded to it?"

Steve nodded jerkily.

"And when you... think about it," Tony said, and his gaze flickered away and Steve realized he knew perfectly well what Steve meant when he'd said _thinking_ , "do you think about me liking it? Or not?"

The last dream, the dream Tony had woken him from, was suddenly more present. He remembered how the dream-Tony had begged him, undeniable need present in every fiber of his being, the way dream-Tony had been so desperate for it, the way he'd let the tentacle take him. Steve's cock twitched again, and he could feel his face heating up, a streak of warmth across his cheeks.

"I, uh. Yeah." Steve's voice was hoarse. "You like it."

"Well, there you go."

Tony nodded, definitively, like this explained everything. Tony was shaking, just a little, like he was still afraid—and, really, who wouldn't be?—but like he was also determined to make this point.

Steve stared. "What?"

"What you like," Tony said, in the voice he used to spell out team tactics, "is thinking about me liking something. Now apparently your thing is tentacles, which admittedly I've never heard of anyone being into before, but it's probably not the weirdest thing anyone has ever liked. You're not thinking about hurting me or making me do something I don't like. Which is also something people can be into, but you're not. You just want to think about me enjoying something. Right?"

It couldn't be that easy. Tony couldn't possibly just _accept_ this.

In fact, Tony still looked uncertain. But his jaw was set, like he was going to make Steve feel better regardless of what he personally felt about it.

"But you didn't like it—" Steve tried to say.

Tony tilted his head. "But I did. Hell, maybe you got off on me getting off on it. What with the telepathy and all."

"You didn't really want to. You were very clear about that."

"That's different. And not what's at issue. What you want isn't me being drugged, it's me being happy. I get it." Tony shrugged. "From where I am, I see that you want me to have a good time, and that's fine." He paused. "Uh. Better than fine, actually." He smiled a very small smile.

Steve could only stare at him. "You don't hate me."

He couldn't quite believe it. All this, and Tony was okay with it? It couldn't be true.

Tony half-smiled. "If we had the telepathy back I'd tell you so." He blew out a breath. "I mean, okay, is it weird? Sure, it's a little weird. I'm not going to lie about that." His fingers dug into Steve just a little harder. "I mean, did I like what the monster did to me? Of course not. But do I want you to be happy? More than anything." He smiled a small, tight smile. "And if this is what does it for you, what you want to think about, then I'm good. Your thoughts don't hurt me."

He didn't want Tony sacrificing his own happiness for him. "Tony."

"It's all right," Tony said, softly, low and intense. "You're not going to hurt me. I trust you. I've always trusted you." He grinned, a crooked little grin. "Always wanted you, too. I mean, you _did_ notice me throwing myself repeatedly at you while that thing had me drugged to the gills on truth serum, right?"

"I didn't know if you—"

"I meant it," Tony said, and his smile now was a little embarrassed. "Every last word."

"You feel safe when I touch you," Steve murmured. "I heard."

Mouth half-open, Tony stopped and stared. "Everything I said, and the _sappy_ confession was the one that caught your interest?"

Steve reached out, and Tony didn't move away, as he put his hand on Tony's shoulder, sliding it up to Tony's neck, to Tony's face. Tony sighed a long sigh, and he didn't say anything, but he was trembling ever so slightly under Steve's fingers.

"I'm interested in the rest of them, too," Steve said, "but I think right now would be taking it all a little too fast."

Tony didn't have to say it, but Steve knew him well enough to know he was on the edge of being overloaded. They needed to pull back from this.

"Yeah, maybe," Tony agreed. "I do like fast... but I think you've got a point."

And then he smiled, turned his head, and pressed a kiss into Steve's palm. Tony's beard scraped his skin. Steve shivered, in joy and exhausted relief.

"So," Tony said, "if you're feeling better, maybe we could get some more sleep and pick this up in the morning?" The way he said it, it was clear it was something he wanted. A bit of a delay, time to think things over.

"I'm not sure I can sleep," Steve said.

"Not a problem." Tony grinned at him. "I've got something else you can do."

He nudged Steve, until Steve fell over backwards, and Tony promptly pillowed his head on Steve's shoulder.

It was... nice. Better than nice. It felt like they had done this for years. He could feel the tension ebb out of Tony's body, the nervousness beginning to recede.

"Oh." Steve brushed Tony's hair back. "You wanted us to sleep together?"

Tony half-sung a bit of a song in French that Steve didn't recognize but that appeared to involve the words _coucher avec moi ce soir_ , and then he laughed. "Well, when you say it like _that_ —"

"This is the strangest relationship I've ever been in," Steve said. "I mean that in a good way."

"The suit of armor didn't tip you off?" Tony yawned. "We're superheroes. It's been weird from the get-go." He yawned again and patted Steve on the arm. "You're comfy."

Tony was draped over him now, soft and pliant and easy.

"It's okay if you think this is weird," Steve murmured. He didn't know if Tony heard. "I don't expect you to want—"

Tony cut him off by mouthing a lazy kiss against Steve's skin. "Weird's just weird, Steve. Weird's not bad." He yawned once more. "Mmm. Good night."

He watched Tony drift off to sleep, smiling.

* * *

Steve had underestimated himself: the sheer weight off his shoulders, not having to hide, knowing that Tony _liked him back_ —he slept better than he had in days, dreamlessly.

When he awoke, Tony was propped up on his good arm, studying him with an inscrutable little smile.

"Hi."

"Hi yourself," Steve returned, and he watched Tony's smile widen. "Nice morning, is it?"

Tony was practically beaming now; Steve didn't ever think he'd seen Tony like this. Tony wasn't just... happy. Steve was planning on savoring it.

"Well," Tony allowed, "we're trapped in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, but I have to say that this is one of the better mornings I've had... probably ever."

"Almost makes a fella want to stay in bed."

Tony's eyes glinted. "What do you mean, _almost_?"

It looked like Tony had definitely thought things over.

If it had been up to Steve—and it sort of _was_ up to Steve—he'd have happily stayed in bed all day. But, as Tony had pointed out, they were still trapped here. At least Tony was going to understand putting the Avengers' needs first; it would be a change from dating civilians, that was for certain.

Were they dating? What were they to each other? They hadn't so much as kissed.

There was time for that, though. They had all the time in the world. Maybe even literally, if they didn't get that radio fixed.

"I am tempted," Steve admitted.

"Mmm." Tony pushed himself up to sitting, and then he reached out and gently ran one fingertip along the inside of Steve's arm. As delicate as it was, the touch made Steve shiver with need. He'd wanted Tony for so long, and now— now they _could_. "You just let me know if you want some more temptation there."

Steve let the smile that wanted to come out of him break across his face. "Pretty sure that if we start now, I won't want to stop."

The pout on Tony's face now had to be for show—well, mostly. "You make a good point." Tony sighed. "Okay. Fix the radio now, fool around later."

After breakfast, which mostly consisted of him and Tony smiling at each other across the table and failing to eat until the food got cold, it was time to get back to work.

It was the boots for today. They had two more chances to find a working part they could salvage for the radio.

"Okay." Tony set one of the boots on the table with a clang. "This is going to be both easier and harder than the gauntlets. Easier because they're bigger than the gauntlets, so all the components will be easier to get at. Harder because I want to take more care with the initial disassembly so that I can put the shells of the boots back together when we're done. If we do end up needing to hike out of here, they're the only footwear I've got."

Guiltily, Steve glanced over at the pile of metal that was the remains of the gauntlets; Tony hadn't mentioned anything like that yesterday, so he hadn't been that careful taking them apart.

"Right," Steve said. "Ready when you are."

It was plain that the atmosphere today between them was going to be different than it was yesterday. What was between them had finally been acknowledged, and every so often Tony would look up and grin at him.

They hadn't mentioned anything about yesterday. Steve supposed it wasn't the time to discuss tentacles.

About ten minutes in, when they'd finally pried off the shin of one of the boots and set it aside, Tony looked up in thought. "So this bisexuality of yours," Tony began.

Surprised, Steve nearly dropped the boot on the floor. "What?"

"Sorry," Tony added, hastily. "I just wanted to know... is this something new, for you? Because I've never seen you—" his arm in the sling moved like he wanted to gesture illustratively and couldn't— "I mean, I've never seen you with a man. Never heard you talk about one before."

Steve got a better grip on the boot as Tony bent his head over one of the open panels. "It's not theoretical, if that's what you're asking." He felt more than a little awkward, because he'd never just talked about it before. "I've been with men. In the war. I don't know if you'd call it a proper... relationship. Barely ever learned anyone's name, most of the time. You know how it is," he said, even though he wasn't sure Tony did. "Soldiers. War. It's life and death out there, and you just want something of life. We never really got to know each other. Safer that way." He shrugged, again awkward. "Most of them were probably straight, or would have been if there'd been women there when they'd needed someone."

"But you're not." Tony's voice went up at the end, a little, like he wasn't quite sure whether he was questioning this.

"But I'm not," Steve agreed.

He'd never been sure how he felt about it all. Still wasn't, really. He'd wondered, sometimes, if he'd owed it to people, as Captain America, to be honest about who he was. The guilt had kept him awake sometimes, because he knew that he lived in a world now where men were dying by the thousands from an illness that he in his charmed life could never fall prey to. Coming out had been unthinkable before, illegal, a blue ticket—but now it would be political in a way he could hardly even imagine.

The government wouldn't talk. The president wasn't talking. But he was Captain America, a symbol of more of than the government, the American dream made manifest. If he talked, people would listen.

He'd been... scared, honestly. The future had been new, and it had been... easier, to date women. Easier to let people assume what they wanted to assume.

It would be another battle. But he was still a soldier, and he knew how to fight. He could do this. For himself. For Tony. For everyone.

"I'm glad," Tony said quietly, with another small smile. "That you're not. I used to think— I used to see how you looked at me, and I used to wonder maybe if—" He paused. He shook his head, and his expression had a rueful tinge. "I told myself that maybe in the forties men acted differently, that you were just being friendly."

Steve grinned back. "They did. And I was being friendly. _And_ I was falling for you."

"Me too." Tony bit his lip. "I figured you'd probably heard the rumors about me, anyway."

Steve tilted his head in acknowledgment. "Didn't seem polite to ask."

He'd heard. Of course he'd heard. Jan had taken it upon herself to inform him, maybe two weeks after he'd woken up. Of course, she didn't know how true they were, either, but she'd wanted him to know, just so he didn't go putting his foot in his mouth.

Tony raised his eyebrows, a gesture halfway between intrigued and salacious. "I'm not sure which rumors you've heard, but at least a few of them are true. I had one... more serious... relationship with a man when I was younger, and then a few flings, but I haven't actually been with a man in years." He paused, searching for words. "It seemed... safer."

"I know what you mean," Steve agreed.

"There are a lot of things I'd do for you," Tony said, very softly, "that I wouldn't do for just anyone, you know."

Steve swallowed hard. "I know that too."

A smile flickered across Tony's face. "It would be worth it. For you."

Suddenly, from one breath to the next, the atmosphere between them had shifted again, and all Steve was aware of was how close Tony was standing. The heat of his body. If Tony just leaned a little closer—

And then Tony met his eyes, and he knew Tony was thinking it too. 

Tony opened his mouth, and he licked his lips, slow and deliberate. He knew Steve was watching, and Steve went hot all over.

"Put the repulsor assembly down as gently as you can," Tony murmured.

Steve blinked in incomprehension, because that wasn't anywhere near what he had thought Tony would say.

"Hmm?"

"Lower your hands very slowly and evenly to the table," he repeated, "and set the repulsor assembly down, both ends on the table at the same time, without tipping it. We do this, we don't break what's left of the boot first, okay?"

"Okay," Steve echoed, and he did what Tony said: the boot settled noiselessly on the table. "Now what?"

Tony's grin was crooked and his eyes gleamed bright. "You need me to draw you a map?"

Daring, Tony tilted his head up—barefoot while Steve was in combat boots, he was a good few inches shorter—and Steve bent down. And finally, finally, their mouths met.

Steve had always known Tony would be good—all the gossip had been very clear on that point—but he hadn't quite been prepared for just _how_ good he was. The kiss was long and lingering, sweet and hot at the same time. Tony kissed with every speck of attention and focus brought to bear, the same way he flew and fought and invented—like right now, Steve was the only thing there was in the entire world, and Tony's only goal on this Earth was to make Steve happy. It was heady, and Steve was positive he was only upright by virtue of the fact that Tony had him backed against the table. At the same time, Steve knew that this was for him, that he meant something to Tony, that this was the beginning of something new and different; Tony was putting all of himself in Steve's hands. This was more than just a kiss. It had to be.

But Steve wasn't a selfish man, and he wanted this to be something Tony would enjoy as well—but he wasn't quite sure what that was. Was Tony still in pain? Would he hurt him? Was he still bruised? Cautiously, he let his arms settle around Tony's waist, pulled him a little closer, and deepened the kiss. Tony made a quiet humming noise of pleasure, and everything in Steve lit up at the response.

"Oh," Tony breathed, against Steve's mouth. "Oh, that's good."

"I wouldn't mind a map, though," Steve murmured, and he felt more than saw Tony's smile. "If you wanted to draw one. Just so I know where the borders are. What's off-limits."

It seemed a reasonable concern to Steve: they'd both been through an unpleasant experience—and Tony much more than him—and he certainly didn't want to do anything that would cause Tony distress. He didn't want to make him think of the tentacle monster.

Okay, part of Steve did. But he sternly repressed that thought. He didn't need to inflict that on Tony.

"For you?" Tony's lips quirked. "No borders. No boundaries. Go wherever you please." There was a glimmer of frustration in his eyes. "I wish I had two good hands already. Here."

His hand—which had been on the back of Steve's neck—drifted down until it reached one of Steve's hands, still wrapped around Tony's waist. Delicately, Tony lifted Steve's hand and shifted it an all-important few inches lower. What had once been well-mannered was now extremely indiscreet, as Steve was cupping Tony's ass through his robe. 

"Just a suggestion," Tony said, with another smile.

"I will take it under advisement," Steve said, as straight-faced as he possibly could, which he managed until Tony started snickering.

God, Steve loved him.

They kissed again, and this time it heated up fast. Steve, as suggested, squeezed Tony's ass. Tony moaned and nibbled on Steve's lip and leaned into him, and God, Tony was hard against him already, Tony was pushing up against him like he wanted more and more, and what if it was too much—

Steve broke the kiss. "Is this okay?"

Breathing hard, Tony stared firmly up at him. "I _promise_ I will tell you if it isn't." He was still trembling, though, and Steve wondered if he was pushing himself.

Tony kissed him once more. There were bruises on Tony's neck, Steve realized, little circles that trailed down underneath the edge of his robe. He remembered the dream he'd had, where he'd touched Tony's bruises— maybe Tony would let him— God, no, that was sick, he couldn't ask him for that—

"Steve?" Tony's voice was shaded with concern, and he realized Tony had stopped kissing him. "Are _you_ okay?"

"I'm fine." His voice was unsteady.

Tony's fingers skimmed along his jaw. "Hey, it's okay. Too fast?"

"Maybe," Steve admitted, ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Tony said, an instant response. But Tony was looking away, not meeting his eyes. Maybe it wasn't just him. "We can finish this boot, pick the kissing up again later?"

"Sure thing," Steve said. "I really am sorry—"

Tony patted his cheek again. "It's all right. It really is. Whatever you need, you can have it."

After another few minutes of quiet work, with Steve watching Tony as he frowned at the remains of the bootjet, Steve blurted out, "Are you sure you want this?"

Tony stopped, looked up at him, and smiled. It was a stunning smile. Open. Absolutely trusting. "A hundred percent."

"But I'm not," Steve said, and he couldn't figure out how to say exactly what he wasn't. He'd seen the people Tony dated. Rich and glamorous, and that wasn't him. Tony'd only dated a teammate once before him, and they all knew how well that had worked out, with Jan, and then there had been Indries. He didn't want to do what Indries had done. "I'm not really your usual kind of date, am I?"

There was that, and, well... there was the tentacle thing.

"I have a usual?" Tony asked, lightly, and then he took pity on Steve. "I mean, okay, sure, maybe you're not, but I'm not seeing how that's a bad thing."

If Tony could see the inside of his head, everything filthy and awful Steve had ever dreamed about him, he wouldn't want him. He was sure that Tony's other lovers hadn't been like this. None of them could ever have wanted this.

"I just got out of a relationship," Steve said. "And you've just been... in a fair amount of distress, and I keep wondering if— if I'm ready— if we're ready—"

Tony leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, and instantly Steve felt just a bit better. "There's no perfect time. And we'll never be perfect people. So if you're waiting for that, you'll be waiting a long time. We're here. We want each other." He grinned. "I assure you that you are a vast improvement over my last date, at any rate."

Indries Moomji had been hired by Stane to seduce Tony. It wouldn't have been hard to improve on that.

"But I'm—" Steve couldn't get through the sentence. "I mean, I want— and I don't know what to do— it's unbecoming— and I can't ask you to—"

As always, Tony was very good at filling in the blanks. "You and your newfound tentacle fetish?"

Steve nodded glumly. He was sure his face was red.

"It's not a problem," Tony said. "It's really not. You want to jerk off and think about me and tentacles? I am down with that." The sentence was a little halting, though; it was clearly hard for him to say.

"Uh," Steve said. "I maybe already. Uh."

Tony's smile was broad and delighted; that was unfeigned, had to be. "Nice."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

"Really not," Tony confirmed, and it looked like that was a lot easier for him to say, this time. "Whatever makes you happy. I mean that."

"Okay," Steve acknowledged, even as he knew Tony must have been stretching his own limits.

Tony winked, and Steve went hot again. "And I am looking forward to finding out _exactly_ what makes you happy." He stressed the word, with a raise of his eyebrows, and Steve smiled again. "That, and hopefully we can get out of here sometime."

* * *

Half an hour later, Tony had extracted a small bit of electronics with a cry of triumph.

"It's intact," Tony said, and Steve sagged in relief and finally set the armor down. Tony could fit the rest of the boot back together, later.

"Does that mean it works?"

Tony was already clearing the armor away and spreading out the pieces of the radio. "Don't know," he said. "Going to find out."

Another half hour later, Tony sat up, ran his hand through his hair, and set his tools down on the table with a resounding thud.

"Yes?"

Steve was on the couch, and Tony turned around to grin at him.

"Want to do the honors, Cap?"

So Steve got up and came to stare at the radio. Tony hadn't put the cover back on, and there were signs that it had obviously been patched together, but Tony gestured at the front of the casing, where there was a power switch. He let his hand settle over it, and Tony covered his hand with his own.

Steve swallowed hard and flipped the switch.

He heard the most beautiful sound in the world: a low, staticky hum.

Tony threw back his head and laughed in delight. "We're in business!"

"You're a genius!" Steve kissed him, jubilantly, and Tony surged up into the kiss for an instant.

"Eh," Tony said, "it was just a radio, but I'll take it." His hand, still on Steve's, pushed Steve's fingers until the power flipped off. "Of course, we can't be sure we'll get a signal. Time to dig out that antenna."

The antenna, Steve realized as soon as he found it again, was the sort that was intended to be mounted outside, on the cabin itself. And hooking it up indoors turned out to have a few problems.

There was nothing. No signal.

"What if it's the magic?" Steve asked, watching Tony spin the dial despondently.

"What do you mean?"

"When your suit was still working," Steve said, "you were having trouble getting a lock on where we were. And we know there's some kind of illusory field when you get too far out of this place. What if we just have to get far enough away from it?"

"Good thought," Tony told him, and Steve grinned. "Okay, so how about we take this outside?"

And then Steve heard it—the pinging of sleet and raindrops off the roof.

Tony grimaced. "How about we take this outside not in the rain? I'm not entirely sure that this is waterproof, even once I get the casing back on."

Steve nodded. "I can wait for the weather to clear up." And then he gave Tony as innocent a smile as possible. "But, gosh, Tony, whatever will we do in the meantime?"

"Oh, I think we'll want a meal or two, at least," Tony said, playing along with the act; his eyes glinted. "And I want to put the boots back together so I can head outside too." A knowing smile curved around his lips. "Other than that—well, I don't know. Maybe we'll find some way to occupy ourselves."

* * *

They'd found plenty of things to do—and true to his word, Tony had taken it slow. The innuendo had been only that, innuendo. But by the time they'd reassembled the boots, recovered the radio, cleaned up, and eaten, it was getting on toward night, and outside it was still raining.

Time for bed, then.

Steve glanced uncomfortably at Tony, who had sprawled across the unfolded bed, still clad in a robe and his sling; Steve's fingers worried at the bottom of his uniform shirt, lifting the edge of it and settling it down. What if Tony thought he was teasing or taunting him?

"Uh," Steve said, "do you mind if I—?"

Tony raised a speculative eyebrow. "You really think I'm going to object to you taking your clothes off?" He smiled, a disarming combination of sweetness and definite prurient interest. Steve saw now that Tony's gaze was tracking him as he moved.

"No, but—"

"Steve." Tony's voice had settled into something more serious. "I already told you. It's all right. The last thing in the world I want to do is push you. I can wait. Wear however much clothing you want."

"Okay," Steve said, and he hauled his shirt and undershirt off, then sat to yank off his boots and get his pants off before crawling in under the covers.

Tony smiled and reached out to the lamp next to him, though he hadn't clicked it off yet.

"I just want to say," Tony said, his voice deliberately casual, "that whatever you dream about is fine by me. If there are more tentacles, I am absolutely not objecting. I just want you to know that."

He'd managed not to think about it for most of the day—but of course, Tony had remembered.

Tony's voice now was easy. He wasn't pushing himself to make Steve feel welcome. He must have thought it over. Come to terms with it. Welcomed it, maybe.

"And anything you want to do about it," Tony added, "is also fine by me. Sweet dreams."

Tony flipped off the light then, which was good, because that way he couldn't see Steve's face, which was probably something appalling. God, Tony was really encouraging him— no, he couldn't be—

Maybe Steve just wouldn't dream. Or maybe he'd dream about something normal. Maybe this would be the end of it.

* * *

The dream didn't even give Steve a choice. He was already fucking him.

Tony was on his back, underneath Steve, slick and wet and open, and Steve was buried in him, as deep as he could go. He had no sense of where they were: there was nothing for him but Tony, the hot, tight clench of his body as Tony urged him on. Tony's hands were on his shoulders, gripping desperately, and Tony's head was thrown back in ecstasy. His eyes were shut.

Steve fucked into him hard and fast, a steady rhythm, and with every snap of Steve's hips Tony groaned out wordless encouragement.

"You know what I want," Tony breathed. He opened his eyes, his gaze an unfocused haze of blue. "And I know what you want. Come on, give it to me."

Tony arched up, and Steve rocked back; he could see where the two of them were joined, where his cock, huge and dark, disappeared into Tony's body, where it slid in and out of him inch by inch. Tony's cock lay across Tony's stomach, smearing pre-come across his skin, moving slightly with the jolting of their bodies. His balls were drawn up tight. He was close, so close, but he was waiting for Steve.

Steve smiled, and he gave Tony what he wanted: the tentacles. They grew out of Steve's body, twined down his arms, in waves of bright blue, and they slithered across Tony's skin by the dozen, just like he wanted. Three of them wrapped themselves around Tony's cock, stroking him, caressing him, leaving only tantalizing glimpses of flesh underneath the undulating, writhing mass of slick bluish tentacles. One of them covered the very tip of his cock with a wet sucking sound, teasing at the head.

Tony groaned. "Oh, yeah." He smiled a blissful smile. "More."

He let more of his tentacles trail up Tony's body, his suckers kissing their way up over Tony's stomach, pinching Tony's nipples ever so delicately. Another tentacle slid up Tony's neck to his face and Tony smiled a dazed smile and kissed it; Steve felt the wetness of Tony's mouth against the slippery warmth of his own tentacle, and he gasped at the sensation.

Steve moaned and fucked Tony even harder, the rest of his body wanting more, more of everything, as Tony groaned and tightened around his cock and arched into the embrace of his tentacles.

"Oh, Tony," Steve whispered. "That's so good."

Tony's lips quirked, and Steve recognized the expression: a dare. "Come on," Tony breathed out, gasping, the words separated by a heavy exhale as Steve slammed into him, over and over. "All the way. Come on. I can take it. I want it."

He loved Tony so very, very much.

He let his last tentacles, the most dextrous, slick and muscular, slide up Tony's thigh. One slid over Tony's balls, playing with them with its nimble pointed tip, and Tony shuddered. Tony was close now. He was ready. Steve could do anything to him.

The other tentacle slid lower, where Steve's cock was already deep within him, teasing at Tony's entrance. Steve was big, but Tony was ready, Tony's whole body was ready and open and willing, and when Steve pushed his tentacle forward, Tony's body let him in.

It was amazing, like nothing Steve had ever felt: the twin sensations, his cock and his own tentacle, pressed there together inside the warmth of Tony's body, so tight that when one moved it would slide against the other in an amazing array of feeling. Steve swallowed hard and breathed deep and tried not to come right then and there. He had to wait. He wanted to watch Tony give up, give in, give him everything.

"Harder," Tony said, and he clenched down. His cock was throbbing in the grip of Steve's tentacles, a mess of the tentacles' slick and pre-come; he had to be almost there.

Steve let the tentacle within Tony slide around his own cock, a move that made both of them gasp, and then he angled the tip of the tentacle exactly where he knew Tony would like it best, as he thrust forward, filling Tony up as much as he could, giving Tony all of himself as Tony lay there, wrapped in the embrace of Steve's tentacles.

"Come on," Tony panted, and he clenched down again, and Steve wasn't going to make it. "Come on, Steve, you know you want this. Show me how much you want this. Don't hold back. Come on—"

Tony kissed Steve's tentacle, and it was exactly perfect, it was everything he wanted, and oh God, Steve was going to come, just like this, he was going to—


	6. Day Six

And Steve woke up. Aching and frustrated, he pushed himself upright, and the sheet that pooled in his lap, he was sure, did nothing to conceal his erection.

Tony had said it was okay, a tiny voice in Steve's head reminded him. Tony had said he didn't mind.

He had one hand on his knee. It would be simple enough to just slide his hand into his lap. But he couldn't.

There was a rustling noise next to him, and when he glanced over, Tony's eyes were just barely open. He was awake.

"Mmm," Tony said, sleepily. "You okay?" He paused; it had clearly taken him a bit of time to figure out why Steve was probably awake. But of course, he remembered eventually. "More dreams? Tentacles?"

"Tentacles," Steve agreed, ashamed.

Tony flailed out, half-asleep still and uncoordinated, and patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay." He frowned. "Good? Bad? Weird?"

For God's sake, in this dream he'd fucked Tony with _his own tentacles_. "Uh," Steve said. "I'm going to have to go with weird." He sighed. "I mean, it was also." He couldn't finish the sentence. It had clearly turned him on. He balled up the sheets in his fists. "I can't. It's just not right."

Tony was silent again, but now the silence was almost contemplative. He propped himself up on his good arm and looked at Steve like he could know everything about him just by looking. Steve resisted the impulse to cover himself more. He was sure Tony could already tell.

"I've got an idea," Tony said, and it was partly his genius-engineer, figuring-things-out voice, and it was partly something else, a note Steve had never heard in his voice before, something soft, gentle, tentative. Nervous, even. He was putting himself on the line here. "And you can tell me to fuck off if it's really something you don't want, but." His words were halting, slowing, and he stopped halfway through the sentence.

Steve laid a hand on Tony's arm, brushing up against him, offering him support the way he'd always done. _Hang in there, Avenger_ , he used to say, to Iron Man, and it used to be metal under his hand. But it had always been Tony.

"I want to know." Steve smiled. "Tell me."

Tony's gaze went a little abstracted, the way he got when he was diving into an explanation. "As I understand it, you're feeling lousy—guilty, maybe—because you feel like everything you're thinking about, everything you're getting off on, is wrong. And you feel like I wouldn't, or shouldn't, approve. Right?"

Steve swallowed; his throat was desert-dry. "Right."

It was more complicated than that, because everything was; the feeling that Tony knew, even if he disapproved, was doing it for him somehow, in a strange, twisted way, like a bright star of pain and humiliation, a fire that ought to scorch and burn but didn't.

Tony's chest rose and fell, a jerky, ragged movement: whatever he was working himself up to, now was the time to actually say it. He could see Tony steeling himself.

"So I was thinking," Tony continued, "that maybe I could give you something a little better to think about."

The way he said it was entirely absent of innuendo, and Steve didn't get it until Tony let his hand gesture all the way down his body. Putting himself on display.

Oh.

Tony licked his lips, a nervous gesture rather than a seductive one. "I know you wanted to go slow. You don't have to touch me if you don't want to. I won't touch you unless you want me to. You can just watch me, if that's your thing. And you can do... whatever you want." His fluttering hand gesture was nowhere near lewd, more of a spasmodic tremor, but Steve knew exactly what he meant and was grateful that it was probably too dim for Tony to see his face. "And that way you can have something to think about that you know I'm okay with, yeah? You'll know that it's okay to want it, because I'm doing it for you."

Oh, God, Steve wanted that. He wanted it like he'd wanted everything else. He wanted it worse than he'd wanted everything else, because this was Tony, offering himself up, offering all of himself to Steve.

"You don't have to," he made himself say. "You shouldn't do it just for me. You should do it if it's something you want to do."

Tony snorted. "You think this is something I don't want?" His smile had a sharp, knowing edge now. " _For you_ doesn't mean bad. It doesn't mean you're selfish. It doesn't mean you're taking anything away from me. It means I'm giving. Because I want to. It means I'm _all yours_." His voice was low and dark, and as his hand smoothed over the tangle of fabric over his hipbone, the sweep of crimson robes, Steve realized that Tony was hard.

For him. Like he'd said.

Steve couldn't stop staring.

"You get whatever you want," Tony murmured, and, oh God, Tony was going to kill him. "You get everything you want. Just for you. What would you like to see, hmm?"

"You."

The word fell from Steve's lips without conscious volition.

Tony was bright-eyed, and his smile was even wider. "Good." He fumbled back behind himself and clicked the lamp back on; the room was filled with golden light. "That probably helps with seeing me, huh?" He glanced away in something that might have been embarrassment. "Sorry, this isn't going to be... the smoothest I've ever been. Usually I've at least got two good hands." He lifted his arm, still in a sling, in illustration.

"It's all right," Steve told him. "I don't need moves."

He didn't want an act, a pretense. He just wanted Tony.

Tony smiled again. "Didn't think you wanted them. I do know you." He chuckled. "But I'm sure all the romance will be gone anyway if I ask you to help me out of this damn robe first." He grabbed a fold of fabric that had tangled around his calf. "It's really the opposite of sexy."

"I think maybe you don't understand how attractive I find you."

Tony batted his eyelashes. "Feel free to keep telling me."

"Very," Steve said, fervently. He tugged gently on the edge of Tony's robe, a wordless question. "Here, come on, I've got you."

Sure, maybe it wasn't a picture-perfect seduction, but that wasn't what Steve was here for anyway. They had to get Tony's sling off and then back on again after getting him out of the robe, an awkward procedure involving a lot of undignified stifled laughter—and, Steve was pleased to note, almost no pain. Tony was healing.

He was still bruised, of course, and as Tony stretched back on the bed, newly freed of his clothes, Steve could see the full extent of the bruising. The bruises from the smallest suckers had healed, but some of them had been deep, and it was easy to make out the huge smeared lines of black-blue over Tony's torso, wrapping down and around his thighs, and God, Steve wanted— he wanted—

Tony half-smiled. "I'm a bit of a mess, aren't I?" he said, under his breath, ruefully, like he expected Steve to be disgusted, when Steve was anything but. And then he paused, studying Steve carefully. "Oh. You _like_ that. Don't you?"

Steve flushed. "Tony."

"You can touch me," Tony said, sprawling back into the pillows and smiling a smile that threatened to undo Steve entirely. "You can touch me absolutely anywhere you want."

"I can't."

"You can," Tony said, low and intense, and then he reached out and took Steve's hand. "Do you know how long I've wanted you to? So long." His gaze was faraway. "Never thought you'd want to. Especially not now."

"Of course I want to," Steve said, and Tony flashed him a smile, and somehow it warmed Steve to know that Tony was nervous too. "I've always wanted to. Never stopped."

Tony set Steve's hand on his side, spread across the bruises on his ribs. "I'm glad."

Steve's fingertips set perfectly into the little circles left by the tentacles' suckers, and he shivered, a frisson of need that went right through him. He made a noise he didn't know he knew how to make, low and wanton, and he was achingly hard. This was just like the dream. This was better than the dreams, because Tony was here and Tony really wanted him and Tony was telling him _yes yes yes_.

"That's right," Tony said, soothingly. "There you go. You can leave your hand there if you want. You can do whatever you want. Join me, if you like. Or you can just watch me, if you'd prefer." Tony's hand drifted away from Steve's, back over his hip, and his fingers curled around the base of his cock, presenting himself to Steve. "Mmm. Anything in particular you want to see?" 

Tony was stroking the shaft of his cock with his thumb, the tiniest of motions, probably unaware he was even doing it, and Steve was hypnotized by the movement.

"I mean, I suppose you've seen it all already," Tony added, his gaze darting away.

He knew what Tony was remembering. But this wasn't like that. This wasn't going to be like that.

Steve smiled and petted Tony's side. "Not like this, I haven't."

"Right." Tony smiled back, his resolve found again. "Not like this. Because this is for you. Any requests?"

He couldn't quite believe that Tony was right here, next to him, offering him anything he wanted. Offering to act out his own private fantasies. It was an embarrassment of riches, and he had no idea what to ask for. He couldn't possibly impose. "Uh," Steve said, at a loss for words. "Nothing special. I mean, whatever— whatever you'd normally do for yourself, that's fine by me."

He had some ideas, of course. But he couldn't just _say_ them. He couldn't possibly tell Tony what he'd been dreaming about. Tony absolutely didn't need any of the lurid details. Tony would laugh, would find it strange, would be appalled and repulsed by the depths of the horrors that lurked in Steve's mind.

Tony's gaze was a little pointed, like he knew exactly what Steve was thinking, but he just smiled lazily, nestled into the pile of pillows and blankets on the bed as though this were the very apex of hedonism.

"I'd like to think we can do better than just _fine_ ," Tony murmured, "but I suppose it's as good a place as any to start."

Hypnotized, Steve watched as Tony began to stroke himself. The slick slide of his hard cock through his fist was slow and languid, his fingers traveling from base to tip in a light movement that couldn't possibly be more than a cruel tease for him, a pace and pressure that Steve thought wouldn't have been enough to get anyone off. God, he hoped Tony wasn't still sore there. But Tony's head was thrown back, and he was moaning like he was practically on the edge already.

"Oh, God," Tony breathed. "It's been a while. God, that's good. This, uh, probably won't take too long. I can try to draw it out a little." He flashed Steve a brilliant smile. "That way you have more to watch, hmm?"

Tony was so beautiful, he thought, and then he remembered that he could say that now, that he didn't have to push that thought down.

"It's a stunning view," Steve told him. "Always thought you were gorgeous."

Tony's lips quivered in another smile, this one almost shy, in contrast to the entirely uninhibited way his hand continued to work his cock. "If you had any idea how much I—mmm—used to think about you..."

Steve grinned. "I hope you're thinking about me now."

"Maybe." Tony drawled the word and then laughed, bright and joyful.

It occurred to him then that Tony was so kind, doing this for him, and surely he could... give back. Maybe Tony would like to watch. He'd watched him before, Steve remembered, in a twisted mess of shame that made his cock twitch and harden; he'd watched as Steve had been forced to his knees and had come, right in front of him.

"Hey," Steve said, and Tony glanced over. "Maybe you want something to watch too?"

Before he could second-guess himself, Steve kicked the sheets off, arched up, and then peeled off his underwear. He palmed at his cock, giving himself a few quick strokes, nervously. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd had the opportunity to be actually naked with another man, and what if Tony didn't like what he saw?

He glanced up, and Tony was staring at him fixedly; raw, hungry desire was writ across his face.

"Oh, wow," Tony said, his voice a husky whisper. "Look at you."

"Yeah?" Steve couldn't help asking. The words wobbled as he spoke. "You like it?"

"I love it," Tony said, fervently enough that _I love you_ had to be underneath, unspoken, and Steve could feel himself relax. "You're amazing. You're the best."

Drugged, Tony had paid him similar compliments, but this was far better, because it was real. Steve wanted this never to end.

Tony gave him another lazy, easy smile and settled back onto the bed; he was, Steve noted, staring fixedly at Steve's hand on his cock, even though Steve wasn't exactly doing much to himself right now. Steve's other hand was still on Tony's side, and he felt the muscles under his fingertips tense up. When he glanced down, he saw Tony thrusting up into his fist, fucking it, letting his hips do most of the work, bringing himself closer and closer to his release in a slow inexorable rhythm.

"You dream about this?" Tony panted, eyes falling shut and then flickering open, like he was torn between losing himself in pleasure and staring at Steve the whole time.

"Sort of," Steve admitted, and he felt his cock twitch in his grasp, grow even harder. "I— I dreamed about watching you a lot."

Of course Tony knew what he meant. "Watching tentacles have their way with me, you mean," he said. The words were halting at first, and it must have been hard to say. The noise that came from Steve's mouth was a strangled gasp, and then Tony grinned wide, emboldened. "Oh, I've got your number now, Steve. You like watching. I figured that out. You could watch them open me up. If you fucked me you could watch, you know. Get the right angle, get some mirrors, get a great view of you pounding me with that huge cock of yours."

Steve whimpered.

"Or is it about leaving a mark?" Tony asked, and Steve wondered if he was going to come, just like this. "You like the bruises, after all. You could leave your own," he offered. "So everyone would know. So you'd know. Biting is good."

Tony's hand on his cock sped up, and he was grinning.

Oh, God, Tony wanted him to have what he wanted. Tony would really _let him_ —

"You were happy," Steve whispered. "I dreamed you were happy. Overwhelmed with pleasure. I— I watched it hold you down and take you, and fill you up, and you wanted more, you wanted me inside you, you wanted me too—"

"I always wanted you," Tony rasped out, like it was a vow. "I want that. Want you to do everything to me. I— oh, God, I'm so close—"

Tony was thrusting raggedly up into his fist. Steve could barely make out the tip of Tony's cock between his fingers, rising up out of the circle of his fist with every stroke as he squeezed and thrust. He was working in earnest now, tight little movements over the sensitive head, and surely that had to bring him off.

Tony was pumping and pumping, his cock huge and dark, arching off the bed, his hand sliding fast and hard over his cock for what seemed like an impossibly long time, and then he sagged back into the mattress with a disappointed sigh, rhythm slow and off-kilter. He was still hard, though, and Steve was at a loss to determine what was keeping him from coming.

"Tony?"

Tony huffed out a breath, a sad sigh. "I— I can't." His face was flushed, embarrassed.

"Hey, it's okay," Steve said, and he stroked Tony's stomach. "It happens to the best of us."

"It's not that," Tony said, his mouth twisted up. "I'm not right-handed."

Oh. His left arm was the one that was still in the sling; he'd been jerking himself off with his right hand. It was one of those things that Steve supposed would probably be funny in retrospect, or if it happened to someone else, but right now Tony just looked frustrated.

"Can't do it with your off hand, huh?"

"Apparently not." Tony's grimace was sour. "Never tried before."

Steve took a steadying breath. "Well," he said, "I'm right-handed, if you'd, uh. If you'd like a hand with that."

Tony's gaze met his, and there was so much hope in his eyes that Steve almost couldn't bear it. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," Steve said. "Let me."

Tony smiled and nodded, and Steve slid his hand down Tony's body and wrapped his fingers around Tony's cock, hard and velvety soft at once. Then, for good measure, he reached out with his other hand, caressing Tony's thigh as Tony's legs parted for him, then sliding his hand up to fondle Tony's balls, tight and close. 

Steve didn't want to tease Tony, on account of how worked-up he was, and the extra stimulation usually worked a treat when it was him. Honestly, if it were him he would have liked a finger or two slipped inside, but he didn't know how to have that conversation with Tony. Tony arched and moaned and thrust up into Steve's hands, and Steve was sure this would be enough.

"Oh, God," Tony breathed. "Oh, God, Steve, that feels so good, just like that. Oh, your hands, they're perfect." He laughed, a dazed sound. "I'm not going to last. I'm sorry. I can't hold out."

"I don't want you to hold out," Steve murmured, and he watched the muscles in Tony's thighs flex, hard and corded, dotted by bruises, and he thought about leaning in and making his own. "I want you to come."

Tony was a little less sensitive than he was—most people were—so when Steve tightened his fist around the head of Tony's cock, Tony gasped and pushed up, greedily, and then Tony was coming, coming in long pulses all over Steve's fist and his own stomach, a gorgeous mess, and then he kept coming, his cock twitching and spurting again.

"Been a while, huh?" Steve asked, softly, amused and—oh God—even more turned on.

Tony's smile was beatific. "Oh, you know," he said. "Other things to do. Didn't much feel like it, lately." Before Steve could follow up on that, Tony nudged him with his uninjured shoulder. "Come on, your turn. I'm afraid I'm not good for much, right now, but I can talk you to death. To the little death."

He laughed at his own joke, and Steve grinned and lay back, getting a good grip on himself as Tony gazed avidly, like he'd never watched anyone get themselves off before.

"I don't think I'm going to be very fancy either," Steve warned him.

Tony half-shrugged, with his uninjured shoulder. "I'm just happy to be here. Besides, I hear I've been missing out on the fun, huh? You took care of yourself while we've been here, you said. I would have liked to have seen that. You and your tentacle fetish."

Steve went hot and impossibly harder. " _Tony_."

Tony was studying him carefully. "You like when I say things like that, don't you?" His voice was gentle. "I mean, you don't like it, but you like that you don't like it? You're kinking on the humiliation?"

Everything in Steve said _yes_ but what came out of his mouth was, "There's a _word_ for it? It's not— I'm not—?"

Maybe he wasn't screwed up. Maybe he wasn't alone.

Tony's voice was even more gentle now. "It's a thing. I had a girlfriend a long time ago who was into it. I can't say it was really my thing, being humiliated, but she liked to do it to me, so." He smiled, with another helpless little shrug. "But if that's what you want, I think I have some idea of what does it for you, if you want me to try."

Steve licked his lips. He knew his cock was practically dripping pre-come all over his hand; he was that turned on. "Please."

"Okay," Tony said, softly. "But stop me if I get it wrong or go too far, okay? I'm just guessing."

"I know you, Tony." Steve smiled. "You make very good guesses."

He settled back, hand moving over his cock in a comfortable rhythm, and waited to see what Tony would say.

"All right," Tony said, and he knew Tony was watching him, studying him, and that made it better. Worse, but better. "A lot of people, see, they get off on being shamed for desire. People telling them how bad they are for wanting anything, using words you probably don't even want me to say in this context, right?" He sounded tentative, feeling his way through unknown territory. "I think about the worst I could say in that vein would be to call you a slut for it."

Unbidden, Steve's hips jerked up at the obscenity, and a small bitten-off noise died in his throat.

"But that's not exactly right, is it?" Tony asked. "That's not specific enough, and it's not personal enough. You're not ashamed to want sex. What you're ashamed of is what gets you off. The exact nature of it, as it were. The tentacles." He leaned in, and he whispered in Steve's ear, his breath hot on Steve's skin. "And what really does it for you is that _I_ know all about it."

"Tony," Steve whispered, and his face was hot, his whole body was hot, and he was fucking into his own fist like he was going to die if he didn't come—

"Oh, yeah," Tony breathed, and his grin was dazzling. "That's what it is. Did you think about me finding you? Catching you? This is a small cabin. I was right there. I've been right here the whole time. Maybe I heard you. Maybe you just couldn't stop yourself and I was right next to you."

Steve was gasping. He couldn't breathe. God, no one had ever made him feel like this, flayed-open in a way so intense that it was beyond being good or bad but all he knew was he didn't want Tony to stop. "Please. You were— you were there."

"I was? Excellent." Tony sounded absolutely _delighted_. He glanced down Steve's body, where Steve's hand was furiously gliding over his cock. "Oh, look at you, you like that. Giving away all your secrets. Are you thinking about tentacles? You are now, I'm sure. And the great thing is, I know it. I know exactly what you're thinking. Every filthy thought in your mind, Steve. You can't hide. I know it all."

Steve opened his mouth and tried to speak, but there was nothing but air. All he could think of was the dreams, Tony held in bondage, writhing, begging for it.

"Did the tentacles fuck me, in your dream?" Tony asked, coolly, and there was no hesitation in his voice now. "I bet you liked watching that." He grinned a predatory grin. "Did I suck them off? I bet I did. I know you like my mouth. Were you imagining something like this, hmm?"

Tony swiped two fingers through the mess of come spattering his stomach and brought them to his lips. The motion was hesitant, and then Tony met Steve's eyes and licked the come off his fingers. He licked his fingers clean in long, showy stripes, and all Steve could picture was the way he'd dreamed it, tentacles in Tony's mouth. His fingers tightened on his cock, and that was it, he was gone—

Steve sobbed and came and came and came. The world went white around him, everything lost to pleasure, an ecstasy that ripped through him.

When he was aware of the world around him, it was to process the fact that Tony was wiping him up with a corner of the sheet. There was something so loving in his touch.

"Did I do okay?" Tony asked, softly. "I mean, I was guessing, and you didn't stop me, and you seemed to like it, but—"

"That was," Steve began, and then he found he didn't have the words. "I loved it. It made me feel like you understood. Like it was okay."

"It _is_ okay," Tony said, and he laid his head on Steve's shoulder.

That, Steve realized, was what Tony had been trying to tell him all week. He got it. He finally got it. Tony wasn't going to judge him.

"Are _you_ okay?" he wondered.

"Steve," Tony said with a sleepy laugh, "this is the goddamn best I've felt in years." And then he reached up and flipped the light off. "Wake me up when it's dawn, hey? We can have an amateur radio club."

_I love you so much_ , Steve wanted to say, but this time he drifted off to sleep before he could get the words out.

There were no more dreams.

* * *

"Okay, what's the plan?"

The rain had ended overnight, and now, in the brilliant light of day—after breakfast and long, lazy kisses— they were standing just outside the cabin. Underdressed, Tony was shivering a little in the morning chill, wearing only a thin robe and his reassembled broken jet boots. He was clutching the radio to himself with his good hand; his other hand was holding a mangled armor piece that contained the power source for the radio, formerly his suit battery, and the two things were precariously wired together. Steve was holding the antenna. Steve realized this was the first time Tony had been outside in nearly a week.

They were going to get out of here. Tony was an engineer. Tony was going to find a way.

Tony frowned in thought. "As I see it, there are two ways this could go. One of them would require more work on your part and might not work at all, dependent on how the magical glamour here actually works." He made a face. "God, I hate magic. Which you know." Steve was sure Tony hated it more than ever, now. "But it would be easier in the long run if it worked. The other way has more chance of working, but also more discomfort."

Steve was willing to suffer for freedom, but he didn't know if Tony was talking about putting himself in danger. That was a definite no. Tony had been hurt enough.

"Discomfort for whom, exactly?"

"Well, it'd have to be at least one of us," Tony said, with that crooked smile that meant he was volunteering right now. "By which I mean, if we walk out of range of the glamour, we're definitely going to get reception with a big fuck-off antenna like that." He jerked his head at the antenna Steve was carrying. "But at least one of us is going to have to stay out here around the clock, on the radio, trying to find someone, waiting for someone to find the Avengers, and then waiting for the Avengers to find us. Could be at least a few hours. Maybe all day."

"I can—" Steve began, because there was no way Tony needed to take that shift. He was already _shivering_.

"And it ought to be me," Tony said, barreling on even as Steve's mouth was hanging open. "This whole setup is basically rigged together with the equivalent of a ball of twine and fervent prayer. If it's going to have to sit outside I'm going to need to sit with it in case it needs fixing."

Steve shut his mouth, because Tony knew perfectly well that he was going to object to that, so there didn't seem to be much of a point. "What's the other option?"

"The other option is that we hope they skimped on the height of the glamour, and we hope that a wired signal can run right through it." Tony made a face. "I don't actually know the answer to either of those things. But if you can get up on the roof—" he eyed Steve speculatively— "and mount that antenna, then we can run it inside and man the station in relative comfort." And then he smiled that smile that went right through Steve, the smile that said _I've got plans for you_. "And we can entertain ourselves while we wait, I'm sure. If it doesn't work, we fall back on the first idea."

Steve pictured his future Avengers report on this situation: _my decision about where to place the radio was guided by my urgent desire to sleep with Iron Man_.

Hell, it wasn't like the rest of the report was going to be any less personal, was it?

He looked at Tony. He looked at the slope of the cabin roof. He looked back at Tony.

Tony smiled wider.

"You know," Steve said, giving in to the inevitable, "I bet I can climb up there no problem."

Now Tony was beaming, a jubilant grin. "Knew there was a reason I kept you around."

* * *

The antenna was now on the roof. The glamour, it turned out, extended about a foot in the air over the roof, which meant that Tony hadn't been able to see him after he'd gotten up there, and it meant that passers-by, if there were any, would be greeted with the sight of most of an antenna hovering in midair. From the ground, Steve could see a foot of the antenna disappear into nothingness.

Steve was beginning to understand why Tony hated magic.

At any rate, they were back inside, and now it was time to see if it all worked.

"Here we go," Tony said, and he flipped the power switch. 

All the indicators lit up again. That was a good sign, but they'd had that before. There was nothing from the speakers but static, which was less good, but it didn't mean failure; it could just mean they hadn't found the right frequency yet, or that no one was talking.

"Time to spin the dial." Tony had one hand on the controls and his voice had a certain amount of relish, as well he should—they were nearly out of here.

Steve picked up the microphone before Tony could even think to do it. "Let me do the talking," he said, "unless you want people to wonder why Iron Man sounds exactly like Tony Stark."

He didn't know which of his identities Tony wanted to place here, but it made more sense for Captain America to have been on a mission with Iron Man than with Tony Stark. Of course, anyone outside of a handful of people was going to be very surprised when they got here, given that Tony's disguise was, to put it mildly, shot.

Tony's smile was only the slightest bit aggrieved. "Won't they discover the answer to that when they find us?"

"Not if I ask for an Avenger-only pickup. Besides," Steve added, "there's still magic around. I'm not sure civilians ought to be involved."

He pictured the basement with its summoning circle just waiting, and he repressed a shudder at the thought of civilians dealing with it. Most of the Avengers might not have been magicians, but at least they knew how to handle themselves around it

"Good point," Tony said. "You can do the talking." His fingers twitched on the dial, sending them to another frequency. "This is the main Avengers non-secure frequency. We're probably too far out, but give it a try."

Steve pushed the button and raised the microphone to his lips. "Avengers Mansion, this is Captain America. Come in, Avengers. Over."

Nothing. And at the mansion they'd definitely be monitoring—so wherever they were, they weren't in range of New York.

Tony sighed. "Okay. Let's keep looking." He poked disconsolately at one of the switches. "It would have been nice if they'd had a police scanner, but I guess you can't expect everything from creepy cultists. And no way are we calling SHIELD."

"Definitely not," Steve agreed. There were some things Nick Fury just didn't need to know about.

Tony spun through the dials—and then he stopped.

And Steve heard voices. Slow, laconic voices. Men talking to each other, unhurried, unworried. Long-haul truckers, maybe. The first voices Steve had heard other than Tony's in almost a week. They'd punched through the magical concealment after all. This was working.

Civilization. _Rescue_.

Tony met his eyes and smiled. They were going to get out of here.

"Well, let's give them something interesting, huh?" Tony gestured at him.

Steve waited for a gap in the conversation and then punched the button. "Break break break," he said. "This is Captain America of the Avengers. This is an emergency. This is not a joke. I need to relay a message to the Avengers immediately. Over."

There was a pause—probably stunned silence—before the radio crackled again, and one of the truckers replied. "Captain America, this is Ivanhoe." Ah, they'd found someone who appreciated literature, judging by his handle. "What can I do for you? Over."

Thank God. This was really happening.

"Ivanhoe, this is Cap," Steve repeated. "I'm stranded with Iron Man. We don't know where we are. We can't leave. Iron Man is injured. I need you to get this message to the Avengers in New York. Tell them we'll be monitoring the main Avengers frequency and to keep broadcasting until they find us." He looked over at Tony, who mouthed the numbers, which Steve duly recited. "Tell them we need a pickup. Over."

After another pause, the man came back on. "Captain, this is Ivanhoe. Ten-four. It'll take me a few minutes to get off the road and find a payphone, but I've got you covered, sir. Over and out."

Steve put the microphone down, and Tony obligingly set the radio back to the first frequency they'd tried, the Avengers one. He left the radio on, humming away to itself. Steve guessed they had plenty of power to burn, since Tony's entire armor was now running a radio.

Tony leaned back in his chair and stretched, one-armed. "And now we wait."

"Any idea how long that's going to take?"

"Probably a couple hours." Tony shrugged. "I have no idea what our range is, but he'll be telling the Avengers where _he_ is, and that ought to narrow down the search pattern." He gave the radio a speculative glance. "The antenna could have been larger, but with the wattage we've got, we could be giving them a fairly large amount of ground to cover. But I'm not worried." He smiled. "They'll get here when they get here."

Steve grinned back. "So what did you want to do until then?" He let the question linger a little, as Tony's smile brightened in understanding. "You seemed like maybe you had some ideas."

Maybe it wasn't the most responsible thing to do—but after this, who knew where they'd end up, or when they'd have any free time together? Sure, they were currently stuck together in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, but perhaps the one upside of that was that there were no gossipy teammates to worry about.

"You're trying to seduce me," Tony said, the grin now a little more impish. He said it like he was quoting something. A movie or show Steve hadn't seen yet, probably.

"Yes," Steve admitted, since he obviously wasn't going to be able to play along. "Is it working?"

Tony's smile was wider, his cheeks a little flushed, his eyes darkening. "You tell me."

Steve stood up, stepped in close, and tugged Tony up out of the chair. Tony came up with no resistance, surging into his arms, and then they were kissing. Tony was still wearing the boots from his armor, and so he was taller now; Steve had to tilt his head up. He didn't think he'd ever kissed anyone that much taller than him, but somehow it was familiar even as it was new; he'd spent a good few years staring up at Iron Man, after all.

The way Tony kissed now was slow and confident. He pulled Steve tightly to him, like he never wanted to let him go, and he kissed him like he had a definite plan in mind. Steve had to admit he was on board, and he let Tony nudge him backwards across the room until they hit the couch-bed, still unfolded.

"I like where this is going," Steve said, appreciatively, as Tony gave him a push that sent him sprawling onto the mattress on his back.

Tony didn't join him, as Steve had expected, but drew a line down Steve's thigh in an idle caress before stepping back. "You stay there," Tony said. "I'm going to get the Vaseline from the first aid kit."

"Now I _really_ like where this is going," Steve called after him, to the sound of Tony's delighted laughter.

Granted, Steve wasn't quite sure how this was going to work with Tony's arm still in a sling; Tony wasn't exactly going to be able to balance well on top of him one-handed, but maybe if he lay on his back Steve could ride him...?

Yeah, that would be good. Heat ran through him, the pleasant warmth of arousal pooling within him, and Steve palmed at his cock through the thick fabric of his uniform, just to encourage it. For all the newness of their relationship, the desire wasn't desperate; it felt, in some strange way, comfortable, like they'd been doing this for years rather than days, like he could just trust that they were both going to be able to give each other what they needed. He supposed that he shouldn't be surprised; it had always been like that with Tony, with Iron Man, since the day he'd woken up in the future. Even with the rough spots, they'd fit together from the beginning, like it was some kind of instinct, like they'd always been meant for this.

After a minute or so, Tony came back, clutching the little tub of Vaseline. Instead of curling up next to Steve, he sat on the edge of the bed, a bit away, and started to take off his boots. Metal rang on the floor. "Just so you don't worry," he said, glancing up, the look in his eyes more somber than Steve had expected, "I'm negative. I've been tested and everything. I know I'm out trying to get myself killed every other week, one way or another, but I haven't done anything with this... particular set of risks... in years, anyway."

Negative for what? It didn't make any— _oh_.

Before last night, Steve hadn't slept with a man since 1945. This hadn't been one of the usual conversations back then.

"Tony." Steve laid his hand on Tony's arm, gently. "Serum, remember? I can't get anything or give you anything. At all."

Tony smiled a small smile. "Must be nice."

And then Tony let himself fall backwards on the bed, landing next to Steve. Steve smiled and reached out, cupping his palm against Tony's face; Tony's smile was a little broader.

"Hey," Steve said, "there you go. Supposed to be a good time."

"Oh, it will be," Tony said, and he kissed Steve's hand, but then squinted. "So other than, uh, a couple days ago if we're counting that, I haven't done this in quite a while. You might need to take your time."

Steve frowned. Now that absolutely didn't make any sense, because that sounded like—

"You want _me_ to fuck _you_?"

Tony stared back in equal astonishment and Steve wondered if Tony had ever heard him say _fuck_ before.

He couldn't say that the idea didn't have its appeal—he'd been dreaming about it, after all—but dreaming was one thing and doing it another. Tony had just been violated. Tony couldn't want this. Not so soon.

"Yes?" Tony's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Is that— is that not something you do?"

"I just thought," Steve said, helplessly, and then he stopped, because he didn't know how to talk about this. "I thought you wouldn't want to. And I don't want to hurt you. More than anything, I don't want to hurt you."

Tony breathed out, a long shuddering exhalation. His gaze was fixed on Steve's; it wasn't quite commanding, but Steve recognized it nonetheless, because it was the look they'd all perfected as Avengers. It said _trust me_.

"You won't." Tony's voice was gentle, like Steve was the one here who needed reassurance. "I swear you won't hurt me. I'm not in pain." He paused. "Okay, shoulder's still a little sore. Not quite right yet. Probably need a real doctor for that. But everything else? I'm fine. And I want this. I _want_ this, Steve." 

Steve hadn't just been talking about physical pain. Tony had to know that. "It doesn't have to be right now. We can wait."

Tony was looking off beyond Steve now, as if his thoughts were already speeding along into the future. "It's been a hell of a week, Winghead." The name never failed to make Steve smile; Tony knew his weaknesses. Tony swallowed, his throat working convulsively. "And when I think about what happened here, everything that happened here, I— I want to think about you. I want to know that I chose this. I want to remember you inside me and not it, and I want you to have been the last one, the only one that counts." He met Steve's eyes. "I want to remember something we did because we both wanted it."

Oh.

When Tony put it like that, it made perfect sense. _Something we did because we both wanted it_. Of course it was important to him.

"Something we did out of love," Steve said, very softly. His heart was pounding. He hadn't quite meant to say it, not now, not yet, but it seemed right.

The sweetest, most incredulous smile spread across Tony's face, a new dawn. He looked like he never would have expected to hear Steve—or maybe anyone—tell him that.

"Yeah," Tony agreed. His voice had gone hoarse, and his eyes shone. "Out of love."

There was nothing to do then but kiss Tony. Tony surged against him, trembled in his arms, his lips parted like the only thing he wanted to do was take Steve inside him in every way possible. When the kiss ended, Tony was still trembling, his eyes wide and dark, halfway to overwhelmed.

"Easy," Steve murmured. "We'll get there."

He helped Tony get his robe off, just as he had last night. And Tony was just as gorgeous as he'd been the night before: still bruised, but beautiful. He was thinner than he used to be, but he was by no means weak—he was muscular, handsome, everything that had taken Steve's breath away the day they'd met, and Steve's brave new world had had _him_ in it. Tony lounged back, sprawled across the sheets, half-hard already, smiling and watching.

Steve peeled off his own uniform a little awkwardly; he knew he didn't have the grace or seductiveness that Tony did, but as he pushed off the last scrap of clothing and looked up into Tony's admiring gaze, he was pretty sure Tony didn't care about any of that.

Tony patted the bed next to him, and Steve didn't need to be asked twice. He was at Tony's side in an instant.

Tony was still smiling, soft and joyful. "I didn't get to touch you last night," he said. "Let me. Please." He didn't say it like it was a line, something facile and memorized. He said it like it was all he wanted to do, to make Steve feel good.

He couldn't possibly refuse a request like that. "Make yourself at home."

"I'm moving in," Tony informed him, and then he chortled at his own joke.

"But I thought that was what you wanted _me_ to do," Steve offered, and he tried his best version of Tony's smirk.

"You make dirty jokes!" Tony's laugh was a ripple of delight. "I like you. I'm keeping you."

And then Tony was trailing his hand down Steve's body, following the touch with kisses. He kissed Steve's jaw, his sensitive throat, the edge of his collarbone. He kissed Steve's nipple, his stomach, and then paused to give Steve one hungry, longing look before leaning back down and taking Steve's cock into his mouth.

Holy God, Tony took him all the way down, without pausing to breathe. Tony's mouth was hot and wet, and distantly Steve was aware that he was gasping something that was probably Tony's name. His hips rocked forward against Tony's mouth, his body instinctively wanting more even though he was already as deep as he could go. Tony's lips, slick, bright red, were stretched around his cock, the sight better than any pornography, better than his dreams. He imagined taking a picture. He imagined drawing this.

He was embarrassingly close already, so close, and when Tony pulled off a little to take a breath, he was still putting his considerable talents to use. He teased at the head of Steve's cock with his tongue and Steve groaned and tried desperately to think about something other than coming in the next ten seconds.

And then Tony pulled off entirely and Steve savored the sight, because debauched was a good look on him. His hair was rumpled and his face was wet and smeared, spit-slick; his lips were dark, nearly bruised, and he grinned and delicately kissed the very tip of Steve's cock. A full-body shiver ran through Steve.

"Mmm," Tony said, happily. He was fondling Steve's balls, fingers dancing up to trail around the base of Steve's cock and then back down again, and Steve tried valiantly to pay attention to Tony's words and not Tony's fingers. "I suppose that's all I get for right now. Wouldn't want you to miss your chance to do something else with this, would I?" His fist encircled Steve's shaft, pumping him once, briefly, in illustration.

"I can," Steve panted, and he couldn't quite remember how to put words together. "I can come more than once. Serum."

"Well, now, _that_ is an interesting party trick," Tony said, his tone somewhere between envy, lust, and a scientist's professional interest.

"Just what kind of—oh my God, _Tony_ —parties do you go to?" Steve managed to retort, as Tony's fingers tightened around his cock again. Tony's grip was a little awkward, but, as he'd said, he didn't do this right-handed.

Tony kept stroking him. He was slightly clumsy, his pace faltering, but still, it was really working for Steve. "At this point in my life," he said, with a cheerful smile, "I'm very happy with a guest list of one."

Steve gasped as Tony's thumb slid over a sensitive spot. "I—oh, that's good—I, uh. Me too."

"I'm glad," Tony said, with another smile, and then his mouth closed once more around Steve's cock.

Steve could hear harsh breaths rasp from his own throat. Tony's manner was intent—determined, even—like this was a mission, and he wanted to be the best. That was Tony. He always wanted to be the best. He kept his hand on the base of Steve's cock as he licked and sucked, and then he did something with his tongue that made Steve gasp out a string of obscenities and cup Tony's head with his hands in hopes that he'd do it again, and he _did_ , and oh God, Steve was going to come. He had the impression Tony was the sort of fella who swallowed, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to warn him.

"Tony," he moaned. "Oh, Tony, I'm going to—"

And Tony, of course, didn't stop, and Steve came and came and came, trembling, as Tony swallowed it all, until Tony finally pulled off. Raising his head, Tony looked up at him with a supremely contented smile, as if he had been the one who'd gotten off here. Tony was even more debauched now; there was come smeared at the corner of his mouth.

"You're _amazing_ ," Steve told him, and he sank back into the mattress, letting the aftershocks ripple through him.

Tony waved the compliment away. "Pfft. I'm out of practice. And besides, you should see me when I've got two good hands."

"Not sure I'll survive," Steve said, and then he moaned, despite himself, as Tony stroked him again, just on the edge of too sensitive. That didn't stop him from getting hard again, of course; he could feel everything within him gather again, another rush of heat.

"Wow," Tony said, enthralled. His touch was light, careful. He didn't know how much Steve could take. They'd learn each other soon enough. "You can really just go again, huh?"

"Mmm-hmm." Steve breathed out. "Come on up here, why don't you?"

Tony crawled back up the bed, and Steve kissed him just enough to taste himself in Tony's mouth before rolling them over. Tony's body was pliant and lax, save for his hard cock bumping Steve's hip, as Tony sprawled underneath him. Steve was suddenly conscious of how much stronger he was than Tony, especially now when Tony wasn't in peak condition. Was he looming? Was he threatening?

Tony patted him comfortingly on the shoulder and then rocked up into him, his cock sliding up against Steve's cock, still exquisitely sensitive, and Steve groaned and thrust back. For a breathless few moments they slipped and slid up against each other.

"Fuck," Tony murmured, a heartfelt obscenity. "I could come just like this."

"You want to?" It wasn't too late to change their plans. "Whatever you want."

But Tony shook his head. "Told you. Want to come on your cock. Your huge, hard cock." He grinned a crooked grin. "I'll make it so good for you. Take it all. Nice and hot and tight. Just for you. Nothing I want more. Been thinking about doing it for years," he added. "Sometimes we'd be the last ones out of the briefing room and you'd just stop and look at me and I'd think about getting you on your back in the middle of the table, right there on the Avengers A, getting my armor off, unzipping that uniform I made you, the one with those goddamn distracting leather pants, and just getting your cock out and riding you."

"Jesus," Steve said, and he had to grab himself so he didn't immediately come all over Tony again. "You keep talking like that, you're gonna talk me right into coming again."

Tony beamed. "You say that like I _shouldn't_ try it."

"Thought you had something else in mind," Steve said, and then he pushed himself up and slid down the length of Tony's body, determined to return the favor that Tony had given him.

It had been years—decades, technically—since Steve had given a blowjob, but he remembered how well enough, and Tony was very appreciative nonetheless. Steve licked up the shaft of Tony's cock and took him into his mouth, enjoying the pleasant size and feel of him, proud of the way Tony shuddered under him and moaned, the way Tony's fingers in his hair kept him right here, exactly where he wanted to be, sucking Tony's cock.

"Steve," Tony breathed. "Steve, oh, you're so good at that."

So Steve kept going, shutting his eyes and just concentrating on taking Tony down and in, giving him every bit of pleasure he could, everything Tony deserved, because Tony deserved everything Steve could give him and more. He ran his fingers over the base of Tony's cock, stroked his balls, stroked his soft thighs as Tony shivered beneath him, utterly relaxed.

He stopped after a few minutes, once all the tension had ebbed out of Tony's body, and he looked up along the length of Tony's body to where Tony was watching him with dark, enthralled eyes.

"It's good," Tony said, a low encouragement. "More. Please."

Steve fumbled for the Vaseline, got the lid off, and scooped it out, conscious of Tony's eyes on him. "Is this okay?"

Tony nodded. "More than okay."

Keeping his other hand on Tony's cock, Steve slowly let his lubed fingers come to rest behind Tony's balls, and then lower still, gliding over his entrance.

Tony made a very small noise, an indrawn breath, and Steve froze, but then Tony smiled.

"Keep going," Tony urged. "It's good. It's great. It's perfect."

He suspected, knowing Tony, that Tony liked to move fast, but he was going to take this slow. So he let his fingers move back and forth over Tony's hole, not pushing in, but sliding around and around, with just the slightest bit of pressure. He could already feel Tony's body trying to yield to him, trying to let him in, and God, but that was hot. He wanted to slide right into him, open him up with his cock, but he couldn't, he couldn't, he had to wait. It would be worth it.

"You're a _goddamn tease_." The words were breathless, choked out, as Tony let his head fall back on the pillows with a frustrated laugh. "I'm going to take out a billboard when we get home. Captain America, goddamn tease, it's going to say. Letters ten feet high. Goddamn tease and champion cocksucker."

Steve laughed. "Well, if you're going to be like _that_ ," he said, and he pushed two fingers inside Tony.

Whatever Tony had been about to say ended in a sigh as air punched out of him in a rush, and he opened up as easy as anything.

Watching Tony's face carefully, he didn't see any sign that Tony was sore; he didn't feel any tension in his body, any pain that Tony was trying to conceal from him. Tony just smiled and sighed again, his eyes gone half-lidded, and he arched his hips up, pressing his body against Steve's hand, trying to fuck himself on Steve's fingers.

Tony's body clenched around him, familiar and yet new at the same time. He was a little tight but he was easing open rapidly as Steve worked him with his fingers; Steve watched Tony breathe, slow and even and regular, relaxing even more. Steve stroked Tony's cock, just to make sure all of him was still interested in the proceedings, and he angled his fingers within Tony over his prostate.

The response was immediate. "Oh, _fuck_ ," Tony said, and he shoved his hips back to force Steve's hand there, again and again, as another rivulet of pre-come ran down Tony's cock and over Steve's knuckles. God, but he got _wet_. Steve hadn't seen anything like it, and he was pretty sure the thought was going to stick with him for a good long time.

Steve grinned. "You like it?"

"Stop fishing for compliments," Tony said, laughing, and his body shook around Steve's hand. "Come on and fuck me. I'm ready. I want it."

So Steve slid his hand out and Tony obligingly reached back and put a pillow under his own hips to help with the angle as Steve settled between Tony's legs and lubed himself up a little more for good measure. Tony just watched him, dark-eyed, and his smile was soft and encouraging.

The head of Steve's cock pressed against Tony's slick entrance and Steve had a brief moment of trepidation— _it's not going to fit, I'm going to hurt him_ —as he pushed. Tony exhaled and arched up and Steve just slid right in, stopping right away.

A wave of something that wasn't quite pain passed over Tony's face, but then it was gone. "It's good," Tony assured him. "Come on. You're good. All the way."

Very carefully, Steve eased in, one long slow thrust that had them both gasping until he bottomed out, all the way in. It was slower than he liked, but he'd be damned if he was even going to take a chance of hurting Tony.

"Is that good?"

Tony's smile was wide and dazed, his eyes gone unfocused, and he just breathed out and nodded, again and again. Steve had the feeling he wasn't going to get a lot of words out of Tony.

So he began to move, slowly, slowly. He'd already come once; it wasn't quite so urgent. He could take his time. He didn't snap his hips, didn't fuck Tony hard and rough. He pulled almost all the way out, just as slow as he'd entered him, and when he looked down between their bodies he saw all but the very tip of his cock, Tony's body stretched wide around the shaft. He slid back in, as slow as he could, as Tony moaned and lifted his hips and tried to force Steve into a faster pace. 

"Oh, God, you're going to kill me," Tony said, but it didn't exactly sound like he was complaining.

Steve reached between them and wrapped his hand around Tony's cock, giving him a few very gentle strokes. "You'll live." He smiled. "I want to take my time with you. You deserve it."

Tony just smiled back, and he looked for all the world like he'd never expected Steve to say anything of the sort.

He continued on at the same slow pace he'd set, as Tony stopped trying to move him along and just went with it, urging him on, rising up into every slow stroke, his body welcoming Steve in with every thrust. They came together the same way they fought together, falling into sync perfectly. Given how vocal Tony had been up until now, Steve was amazed to find that Tony couldn't seem to put a sentence together. His mouth opened, but he only gasped and sighed half-voiced obscenities and sounds that might have been bits of Steve's name, groaned out as Steve thrust in, as deep as he could go.

Steve had been bracing one of Tony's legs with one hand, but he could balance just fine. He let his hand drift up to Tony's hip, Tony's chest. His jaw. His lips. The angle didn't quite allow them to kiss properly, but Tony turned his head and mouthed a sloppy kiss over Steve's fingers, with a smile. He loved Tony so much, and he knew that Tony loved him back.

He could feel the pleasure building within him, gathering, more than he thought he could hold within him, but drawing it out meant he could let it rise and rise. Tony wasn't quite there yet, after all. But Tony was close. With every thrust he matched, Tony pushed against him harder. He cried out more loudly. His fingers dug into the sheets. Tony's cock, lying across his stomach, was huge and hard, bouncing with every thrust. He just needed a little bit more.

So Steve slid his hand back down and encircled Tony's cock with his fist, picking up the rhythm the two of them had set, sliding deep into Tony as his fingers moved over the sensitive head of his cock, watching it bob through his fist. Steve tried desperately to think about not coming for just a few more seconds. He had to hold out. He looked back up along Tony's body as he thrust in one last time.

Tony's mouth opened in a soundless gasp and then Tony was coming and coming, all over both of them, his body tightening around Steve so perfectly, and Steve shut his eyes and let his own long-denied release take him, higher and higher, more intense than he'd ever known. Shaking, he fell forward, and he hoped distantly that he wasn't crushing Tony, because he didn't think he had any energy left in him.

Tony's hand smoothed his hair back before drawing him close; Tony pressed kisses to Steve's temple.

"My God," Tony murmured. "Did we break you?"

"Mmm," Steve mumbled against his shoulder. "Shh. M'okay."

"Yeah, I bet you are," Tony said with a laugh, kissing him again.

They lay there, entwined, and there was nothing to do, nothing to think about, nothing but this, and Steve thought that maybe, finally, he'd found the place he belonged in the future, the exact right place, here in Tony's arms.

Eventually Tony stirred and lifted his head. "Not that I particularly want to go anywhere right now, but I, uh." He gestured at himself. "I'm a bit of a mess."

"I'll shower with you," Steve offered, and Tony's grin was bright.

And then the radio crackled.

"West Coast Avengers calling Captain America," a tinny, familiar voice said. "Cap, this is Hawkeye. Come in, Captain America."

Leaping out of bed, Steve practically dove across the room. He was aware that he was completely naked and it was obvious what they'd been up to and if the team were right here with a Quinjet he and Tony would be grist for the Avengers' rumor mill possibly until the end of time. But it would all be worth it if it got them out of here.

He jammed his finger on the talk button. "Hawkeye, this is Cap. Good to hear your voice."

"Oh, thank God," Clint said. The sound attenuated a little as Clint presumably leaned back from the mic. "Hey, Mock, we got 'em!" Another pause. "It's just me and Mockingbird. Wonder Man stayed home while we took the jet out. We have you on scanners. We're about ten minutes out. But what's this I hear about Iron Man being injured?"

Tony had come up behind Steve, and now he wrapped his hand around Steve's, pushed the button for him by pressing on Steve's thumb, and leaned into the mic. "I'm mostly fine," he said. "Shoulder's a little banged up. Going to need medical attention, but I'm not dying. The suit's totaled and I can't fly, though."

Steve frowned as Tony let the button go. "Tony, if they come up here, they'll know who Iron Man is." Assuming his voice hadn't given it away already.

"They know already, the two of them," Tony said. "They found out a couple months back, when they caught me sneaking into their compound. Long story."

The radio crackled again. "The new armor's broken already? That's a damn shame," Clint said, with feeling. "Anyway. Don't go anywhere. We'll be landing soon. Hawkeye out."

Steve glanced over at Tony, whose face bore the same joy that he was certain was on his own.

"Okay," Tony said, with a grin. "So it's going to be a really fast shower together. Come on."

Steve grinned back and followed Tony.

They were going home.

* * *

The Quinjet descended.

They stood outside, just past the boundary of the glamor, and Steve raised his shield to wave Clint and Bobbi down. The Quinjet was a circling dark blur, at first, but then it grew closer, and Steve could make out its familiar outline, the engines at full. The team had clearly wasted no time getting to them.

"Isn't that a sight for sore eyes," Tony said, under his breath. He was still shivering in his robe, but not as much; it had warmed up since this morning, and the sky was clear and bright.

"You're telling me," Steve agreed.

After another pass, the Quinjet's engines dimmed, and it made a very respectable vertical landing, settling down into the mud and melting ice, a dozen or so yards away.

Steve was possessed by the sudden, desperate urge to hold Tony's hand.

The back of the Quinjet opened, the ramp lowered, and then Clint was striding down, with Bobbi just behind him.

"Well, well, well," Clint said. "Fancy meeting you two here."

"Likewise," Steve said, and then he frowned. "Where _are_ we, anyway?"

"Sierra Nevada foothills," Clint said, and Steve blinked, because he hadn't guessed they'd gotten as far as California. "Not too far a flight from me and Mock." Clint waved a hand in the direction of where Steve had gone hiking a few days ago. "Over there is Disappointment Lake. Or maybe Hell For Sure Lake, I forget which."

Bobbi squinted. "How do you not know where you are?"

"Evil magical cult," Tony said, smoothly. "Teleportation. You know how it goes."

They all did, of course.

Clint finally seemed to realize that Tony was injured, and he gestured at his shoulder. "You okay there?"

"Fine. I will be, anyway." Tony nodded. But the team clearly needed a better explanation than that, and Steve tensed. It didn't seem to bother Tony, though. He just shrugged and said, "I got body-checked by a tentacle monster."

That was the truth, too. And it seemed to be enough.

"Oof," Clint said, sympathetically. "Sorry to hear it. Come on, let's get you home. You can't want to stay here."

As they followed Clint and Bobbi up the ramp, as they all strapped themselves in and readied the jet for takeoff, Steve started to wonder where home was. And it seemed that he wasn't the only one with that question, because as Bobbi pulled back on the yoke and sent the Quinjet aloft, Clint turned halfway around in the copilot's seat and raised his eyebrows.

"So where are we dropping you off, Cap?" Clint asked. "We can get Shellhead here all fixed up at the compound—" Tony nodded in agreement— "but if you're going back to the mansion you might have to wait a bit."

Tony's eyes met his, and Tony bit his lip. The question he couldn't utter aloud was plain on his face, and his fingers tightened over his harness straps like he wished he were holding Steve again.

He didn't need some monster's telepathy to know what Tony was thinking.

Steve cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I've got to pick up a van I abandoned in Ohio, and I'm a week late on an art job, but I don't need to go back to New York."

"No?" Clint seemed surprised. And then he brightened. "Oh, right. You're touring the country. I heard."

"Nah," Steve said, "I've seen all I need to see. I— I know where I belong now. I was thinking I'd come join you all. I hear the west coast is the place to be. Sun. Beaches. Palm trees." _And Tony_.

Clint whooped. "All right!"

"We've got plenty of room," Bobbi added, as the Quinjet rose ever higher and Clint turned back to face front. 

Tony was still staring at him, awed, and there was so much hope in his eyes, and Steve just kept smiling and smiling back at him.

Tony mouthed three words. _Stay with me_.

"Actually, that would be great, thanks," Steve said, "I've got it all figured out already. I know exactly where I'm going to be." He was sure there was space for him, wherever Tony was. Tony was with the WCA, so Steve would be there too.

Tony smiled even wider.

He would be at Tony's side, the way he had when he'd first woken up in the future. He'd get to be with Tony. He couldn't think of anything better than that. 

Steve reached out, and he took Tony's hand, holding it tight. And together they flew west, onward, to the beginning of their new lives, together always.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to like/reblog the story and/or the art on Tumblr? The story has a post [here](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/161615091044/cap-im-rbb-this-mortal-part-of-mine), and the art is [here](https://phoenixafterhours.tumblr.com/post/161614510241/full-uncensored-art-for-the-2017-cap-im-rbb-the) (NSFW), [here](https://phoenixafterhours.tumblr.com/post/161614597446/some-bonus-art-for-cap-im-rbb-2017-and-sinealas) (NSFW), and [here](http://phoenixmetaphor.tumblr.com/post/161614699362/some-safe-for-work-bonus-art-for-sinealas-this).
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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